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ORIGINAL SINNERS 


BY THE SAME AUTHOR. 


NEIGHBOURS OF OURS : Scenes 
of East End Life. 

IN THE VALLEY OF TOPHET : 
Scenes of Black Country Life. 

THE PLEA OF PAN. 

BETWEEN THE ACTS: Scenes in 
the Author's Experience. 

THE DAWN IN RUSSIA : Scenes in 
the Revolution of 1905-1906. 

ESSAYS IN FREEDOM. 

ESSAYS IN REBELLION. 

THE DARDANELLES CAMPAIGN. 

LINES OF LIFE (Verse). 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


BY 

HENRY W. NEVINSON 



NEW YORK 

B. W. HUEBSCH, INC. 


MCMXXI 



am 

m 9 9(1 


PREFACE 


rTIHERE has been some discussion lately 
about “ The Fall of Man,” and English 
ecclesiastics, appealing to higher authorities 
than the mere sciences of geology, morphology, 
biology, zoology, and the history of mankind, 
have confidently maintained the truth and 
value of that theological hypothesis. It 
is very natural. I suppose that every 
mythology, whether Hebrew, Greek, Roman, 
German, Celtic, or Norse, has imagined a 
distant age of innocence and happiness to 
which those races looked back with a regretful 
yearning, such as many middle-aged people 
feel in looking back upon a childhood fondly 
pictured as innocent and happy. Every one 
knows how rapidly the past becomes idealised 
— how rapidly the black shadows of bodily 
pain, grief, fear, and anxiety fade from the 
picture that we recall. Unconsciously, and 
even unwillingly, memory works at her 
selection, and, like a sun-dial which boasts 


VI 


PREFACE 


“ Nullas numero horas nisi serenas ,” she 
records only the feelings and incidents that 
were comparatively bright. The process of 
elimination is so quick that almost every day 
of our lives we can say to ourselves, “ To- 
morrow how I shall long for yesterday ! ” 

So it is no wonder that the traditions of 
mankind, extending over many thousand 
years, should often have called up dissolving 
visions of ancient peace and virtue and joy — 
an Age of the Elder Gods, a Golden Age, 
a Garden of Eden, where was neither grief 
nor pain nor parting nor any sin. Even 
historians, poets, and novelists, who limit 
themselves to more definite history than the 
theologians, love to dwell upon the imagined 
charms of the “ Violet-crowned City,” or of 
mediaeval chivalry, or Elizabethan spacious- 
ness, or even of our rollicking Civil Wars 
and the romantic ’Forty-five. It seems as 
though “ The Fall ” were not merely a 
decline from Adam and a Saturnian Age, but 
a recurrent or perpetual process — as though 
man were for ever declining and falling down 
a slippery slope. Indeed, for any one who 
has survived the last six years and been 


PREFACE 


vii 

present at scenes of bloodthirstiness, lust, and 
cruelty far surpassing the imagination or 
capacity of any other animal, the continuous 
Fall of Man is a doctrine easily believed. 
There was a time when man could be described 
as a little lower than the angels, and crowned 
with glory and honour ; but large numbers 
of our genus have lately shown themselves 
immeasurably lower than the beasts, amid 
the applause of many who were debarred 
by age or sex or religion from enjoying 
opportunities for similar conduct. 

And yet, however natural the doctrine of 
the Fall may be, it appears to me too like 
despair. If we have always to keep our 
backward-turning eyes fixed upon a retreating 
past of innocuous joy, while we drag at each 
remove a lengthening chain, what inducement 
has mankind for proceeding upon the way ? 
Let us, rather, leave the world to the superior 
wisdom, morality, and beauty of elephants, 
apes, and peacocks. Only if we remain 
obstinately deaf to the poetic allurements of 
the Fall and heroically cleave to the repellent 
old doctrine of Original Sin (its contrary, 
though many contrive to accept both) — only 


PREFACE 


viii 

then does the outlook grow a little brighter. 
Take our sins as original, as part of man’s 
very essence from the beginning ; assume, 
with Mephisto, that we have used our glim- 
mering light of reason only to become more 
bestial than the beasts ; put mankind at its 
worst within historic times, and in the present 
appalling years ; still, we may now and again 
perceive in men and women something which 
makes us hold our breath, as at a sudden 
revelation of splendour. Kindliness, courage, 
laughter — all simple things, but how unex- 
pected and startling ! We talk of “ common 
honesty ! ” Ifc is so rare and so welcome 
that the merest touch of it makes one jump 
like the touch of an angel’s hand. Fidelity, 
self-sacrifice, and shame — many animals and 
birds display those qualities, and many have 
a highly-developed sense of beauty and art. 
A dog can smile and laugh, or “ grin,” as the 
Psalmist knew. Horses, asses, and cats 
maintain profound convictions. Camels and 
trek-oxen practise prudence and resource. 
But in all these characteristics man at times 
surpasses them, as he surpasses them in bestial 
ways. That is where the wonder comes 


PREFACE 


IX 


in. Compared with occasional revelations of 
man’s humanity, honesty, self-sacrifice, and 
laughter, no miracle ever performed by god or 
saint or magician can appear marvellous, nor 
would I turn my head to see it. What 
recorded miracle can exceed in wonder the 
momentary transfiguration that any one with 
his own eyes can see any day of the week 
enacted in many a human soul by such a 
commonplace affair as love ? There is nothing 
to astonish us in Original Sin. What over- 
whelms us with incredulous amazement is the 
fleeting apparition of virtue. 

As to these tales and scenes, they were 
written at various times as they happened to 
come into my mind, without any order, and 
certainly without doctrinal intention ! But 
some one suggested that they illustrate this 
old doctrine of Original Sin, and I can only 
hope they may also show that man, plunged 
up to the neck in his black and tenacious 
slime-pit, may yet, to his own astonishment, 
at times perceive lights as of constellations 
promising him some happier issue or future 
redemption. Those constellations, existing 
in his heart alone, are the twinkling lights of 


X 


PREFACE 


his own unstable belief in beauty or love or 
magnanimity or uncompromising indepen- 
dence. In these scenes a glimpse of those 
flickering lights is sometimes just visible, 
however dim. Sometimes a light is perceived 
as a passionate mental courage, bringing to 
naught the pride and wisdom of the world 
and its governors ; sometimes as a redeeming 
friendliness and natural affection ; sometimes 
as that peculiar restraint called shame ; and 
once as a rudimentary quality displayed in 
a creature vainly desirous of entering the 
path of humanity, as he hopefully conceived 
humanity to be. 

The details in “ Qualis Artifex ! ” are 
derived from Tacitus and Suetonius ; those 
in “ Diocletian’s Day ” from Gibbon and my 
brief residence in Spalato. The idea of “ Sly’s 
Awakening ” is an imaginary continuance of 
the Prologue to “ The Taming of the Shrew.” 

H. W. N. 


London, 1920. 


CONTENTS 


I. 

“ QUALIS ARTIFEX ! ” 

• 

• 

PAGE 

1 

II. 

sly’s AWAKENING . 

• 

• 

27 

III. 

A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE . 

• 

• 

55 

IV. 

PONGo’s ILLUSION 

* 

♦ 

78 

V. 

“ SITTING AT A PLAY " . 

• 

• 

103 

VI. 

A TRANSFORMATION SCENE 

• 

• 

131 

VII. 

“ THE ACT OF FEAR ” 

• 

• 

157 

VIII. 

IN DIOCLETIAN’S DAY 

• 

• 

173 












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* 

























































ORIGINAL SINNERS 


i 

“ QUALIS ARTIFEX ! ” 

O UDDENLY at midnight the blare of trum- 
^pets sounded in the distance. It was the 
signal that the Emperor had issued from the 
doors of Rome’s Golden Palace, where at last 
heaven-born genius had secured a worthy- 
home. At the sound a murmur of expectation 
rose in the new theatre, constructed upon 
ruins left by the great fire. Too long had the 
city been deprived of the worlds conqueror. 
Month after month the successive contests 
which had converted his progress through the 
province of Achaia into a series of triumphs 
had detained him in the Near East. After 
each event messengers were despatched to the 
Senate bearing staves entwined with laurel, 
and Rome listened mute with admiration to 
the record of hard-won victories. First prize 
in dancing, first prize in eloquence, in poetry, 
in chariot driving, and several first prizes in 


2 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


music and singing — all had fallen to the 
Emperor’s prowess. His adversaries were 
worthy of the conflict — no despicable or bar- 
barian foe, but highly trained champions in 
all the arts, the finest flower of Hellenic 
culture. 

At Olympia he was declared victor, though, 
like Phsethon’s, his horses left the track. At 
the Isthmus the descendant of divine Caesar 
out-danced the traditions of Hippocleides. 
At Nemea he rivalled Hercules in wrestling 
with a living lion, overcome by the Imperial 
glance and opiates. Arcadian maidens tripped 
to his lyre, as when Apollo led the dances of 
the Nine. In him Greece applauded a new 
Demosthenes on the tribunal, a new Aeschylus 
in the theatre. The wardens of pristine 
religion listened in solemn conclave while he 
expounded to them the varied forms of 
abnormal pleasure. Everywhere the priest- 
hood suspected celestial aid, the populace 
boldly acclaimed divinity. Everywhere he 
came, was seen, and conquered. 

From such triumphs he had now returned 
to Rome enriched by his excesses, renovated, 
as once destroyed, by his artistic sensibility, 


“QUALIS ARTIFEX!” 


and released by his example from the tyranny 
of virtue. No previous conqueror, fresh from 
domination over Celtic savages or Germanic 
forests, had been received with comparable 
enthusiasm. Lo, he came enthroned in the 
chariot of his divine Fathers and wearing the 
Imperial purple studded with heavenly stars, 
his head adorned with the crown of wild 
olive, and waving in his hand the laurels of 
the Pythian. Forcing a passage through the 
Circus, he climbed to Apollo's temple, encom- 
passed by five thousand troops, strictly dis- 
ciplined in applause. Beside him was seated 
one of the finest flute players of the age, and 
behind his throne a harlot, dressed as the 
Hebe of Olympus, offered wine from a silver 
bowl, now and again whispering in his ear the 
warning words, “ Remember — remember thou 
art a god.” Rapt from the people’s eyes, he 
had disappeared for three days into the 
shrine, and the moment of his second mani- 
festation was now approaching. 

In the new theatre, soon to be inaugurated 
in the joint names of the Emperor and God, 
the murmur of expectation was continuous. 

All day the audience had remained expectant, 

1—2 


4 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


for every seat had been filled in the early 
morning, and the doors then closed and 
guarded, so that none might be deterred from 
adoring the Emperor’s presence owing to 
sickness, hunger, or other human frailty. 
The two back rows were occupied by prisoners. 
Each was chained to a warder, and encouraged 
to hope for nearer freedom in proportion to 
the vehemence of his admiration. A body of 
young nobles had also conspired to applaud, 
and both prisoners and profligates could be 
relied upon to remain stanch. But under the 
stress of prolonged anticipation, a few matrons 
of distinguished rank almost collapsed, their 
resolution being only supported by the know- 
ledge that grave reproof, supplemented by 
torture, awaited any one so indifferent to 
beauty as to faint. 

The music approached slowly, for nearly a 
mile of marble colonnade, winding among 
new gardens and along the shore of a recently 
created lake, had to be traversed between the 
palace and the stage. But at length the van- 
guard of the procession began to arrive. The 
sharp, military orders of the Praetorians were 
heard outside, the tramping of the soldiers 


“ QUALIS ARTIFEX ! ” 


5 


ceased, and a distinguished general entered, 
bearing the Imperial harp. He placed it in 
the centre of the stage, and withdrew. 
Military tribunes followed, carrying gilded 
standards to which were affixed wreaths and 
other emblems of conquest, removed for the 
occasion from the Emperor’s bed, where they 
habitually hung lest even in sleep he should 
forget his glory. The judges appointed to 
preside at the approaching struggle were 
heralded by a band of trumpeters. They took 
their seats upon thrones — the two Consuls, 
before whom lictors carried the rods and axes 
of ancestral Rome ; and Tigellinus, com- 
mandant of the Praetorian Guard, equally 
conspicuous for his unmerited rank and his 
filthy reputation. When they were seated, 
the soldiers ranged themselves at the back of 
the stage in a semi-circle of gleaming arms, 
against which the white robes of the Roman 
Consuls stood out in strong relief. Numerous 
lamps illuminated the scene of impending 
strife, and at the wings two huge torches of 
pinewood added a barbaric flare. In front, 
the upturned faces of the Senate and the 
Roman people glowed. 


6 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


Deep silence fell, such as awes embattled 
hosts before the onset. A trumpet rang out 
a single blast, and from the side of the stage a 
human voice was heard imitating the pitch- 
pipe's note with fair success. At the sound, 
the whole audience, recognising the voice that 
breathed harmony over the world, rose to its 
feet in a tumult of impassioned applause, 
farther encouraged by the cracking of whips 
and the strokes of rods with which sentries, 
posted among the benches, stimulated the 
enthusiasm of the unmusical. When loyalty 
had reached its highest expression, a shy 
figure was perceived entering with hesitation 
from the left of the stage. Then indeed the 
noise of the whips and the profane exhorta- 
tions of the soldiery were drowned in re- 
doubled acclamation. At the uproar, the 
Emperor stopped and glanced around, as 
though listening in modest astonishment. 
Pacing the audience with downcast eyes, he 
appeared to be on the point of retiring. His 
red face grew redder ; his yellow hair, 
gathered in plaits above his forehead, and 
hanging in loose disorder round his neck, was 
seen to tremble ; the feeble legs supporting 


QUALIS ARTIFEX!” 


7 


his protuberant figure trembled also, making 
the light drapery of his womanish garments 
quiver ; and he kept crossing and uncrossing 
his naked feet, like a frightened boy. Touched 
by these evidences of common humanity, and 
maddened by terror of the lash, the spectators 
shouted anew their devotion to his divinity, 
while the shrieks of sufferers swelled the 
clamour of approbation. Thereupon the 
Emperor, casting his eyes this way and that, 
hurried toward the judges, as though for 
refuge, and fell on one knee before them. So 
he remained, his head bowed low, his arms 
outstretched in submission. 

Again a trumpet sounded, and there was 
silence while Tigellinus, the Imperial wanton, 
standing between the Consuls, announced* 
that a golden diadem was offered by the 
Vestal Virgins as a prize for the best recitation 
of an original poem. The first competitor was 
a rising young poet, named Nero Claudius 
Caesar, on whom the Senate was also pro- 
posing to bestow the title of “ the Saviour,” 
for his eminent services in subduing the rival 
artists of Greece. The subject of the poem, 
which he had composed during intervals of 


8 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


public leisure, was the anguish of Orestes 
when first he perceived the approaching 
avengers who, pursuing him over land and 
sea, exacted the penalty of a mother’s blood. 
At the announcement, a murmur of approval 
ran through the theatre, partly due to 
adoration of incarnate godhead, partly to 
artistic satisfaction with so appropriate a 
theme. For all remembered Agrippina’s fate. 

The Emperor rose and unwound a protect- 
ing comforter from his thick and fleshy 
throat. He divested himself of a breast- 
plate, which he wore under his tunic, not to 
avert the weapon of an enemy, but to pre- 
serve the treasure of his voice from chill. 
Humbly saluting the judges and audience 
again, he plucked a few strings of the harp 
with considerable accuracy, and began the 
recitation. It was a medley of passages from 
the various dramas on Orestes, translated into 
Latin iambics by a poet recently executed for 
claiming the authorship. Inserted narrative 
connected the speeches, but the greater part 
consisted of soliloquies, uttered by Orestes 
while hesitating about the murder, or verging 
on the insanity of remorse. The Emperor’s 


“QUALIS ARTIFEX! 


9 


voice was harsh and uncertain. In chanting 
the lyrics and more solemn passages, he 
pitched the tone sometimes sharp, sometimes 
flat, but by striking an average the intended 
note could usually be conjectured. His 
gestures were inexpressive, though violent ; 
his memory required continual prompting ; 
and the sleeve on which, in accordance with 
theatrical rules, he wiped his face, was soon 
sodden with sweat. Nevertheless, in the 
soliloquy where Orestes first perceives the 
avengers lurking in dark corners, and feels 
the clutch of their talons on his heart as they 
hover round him, the Emperor obtained 
effects which would not have disgraced a pro- 
fessional actor of commonplace capacity. 
Quitting the harp, he raved about the stage, 
threatened the air with his fists, clutched at 
his copious locks, grovelled on the boards, and 
wrapped his tunic about his eyes to exclude the 
atrocious vision. Nor did the spectators fail 
to argue the cause of this rapid improvement, 
seeing that the Emperor shared, if not the 
remorse, at least the distinction of Orestes, and 
in matricide, at all events, was no amateur. 

The recitation lasted nearly two hours, but 


10 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


the attention of the audience, already so long 
herded together, was from time to time 
encouraged by incense, and at frequent 
intervals, after some unusually emotional 
passage, or when the Emperor paused in 
forgetfulness of the words, the marks of 
approbation were renewed, inspired by simu- 
lated pleasure, or by artistic anticipation of 
a satisfactory ending. At last the Imperial 
voice was hushed, and silence succeeded, like 
the peace of God. Panting with excitement 
and the prolonged strain of the enterprise, 
the Emperor knelt again before the judges, 
and gazed from one face to another, like an 
anxious criminal expecting his doom. After 
pretended consultation the three judges rose 
and declared all competition would be vain. 
Upon the Emperor’s head they placed a golden 
diadem, from which projected the sunlike 
rays of Apollo. With hand on heart, the 
victorious poet smiled his relief and gratifica- 
tion. Turning to the audience, the ruler of 
the world announced his triumph, and again 
the whole theatre rose in a turmoil of ecstasy. 

Already the gangways were crowded, and 
soldiers began loosening the barricaded doors, 


“ QUALIS ARTIFEX! 


11 


when the Emperor was seen raising his hand 
for silence. Bowing repeatedly, he gave out, 
with modest grace, that, in answer to a desire 
so cordially expressed, he would voluntarily 
offer for their approval a second recitation, 
which, unfortunately, must be brief, owing to 
the lateness of the hour. Stifling their groans 
under expressions of delighted surprise, the 
audience resumed their places. Two or three 
women, indeed, being of noble rank, took 
the opportunity of swooning, overcome by 
feminine susceptibility to emotion. And 
one Senator, with Roman daring, simulated 
sudden death, and was borne, a breathing 
corpse, into the outer air. 

Pleased thus freely to bestow upon man- 
kind the benefactions of genius, the Emperor 
selected the opening lines in which the poet 
of “ Pharsalia ” dedicated to him that long 
lamentation over the loss of constitutional 
freedom and pristine worth. “ If, indeed,” 
the poet had cried, “ if, indeed, no other way 
but through the horrors of civil war could be 
found for divine incarnation — if only after the 
strife of Titans could Jove enter into his 
kingdom — mankind had no cause to com- 


12 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


plain, nor was any series of disasters too dear 
a price for so splendid a boon as the Emperor’s 
existence.” Pitching his voice a little lower, 
and assuming an attitude of profound rever- 
ence, the Emperor repeated the remaining 
lines with special solemnity. 

“ And when thine earthly course is run ” — so the poet 
continued his dedication — “ when at long last thou shalt 
ascend into heaven, and, while the stars sing together, 
be received into the palace of the firmament — whether 
it be thy will to dominate the skies, or, mounted on the 
sun’s flaming chariot, to course in light above an earth 
that fears not the change from Apollo’s driving — then — 
oh, then each deity unto thee shall yield a part : — 

“ Each deity unto thee shall yield a part, 

And nature grant the preference of thine heart 
Which god thou’dst be, where set thy kingdom’s hold. 
Ah, choose not thou some realm of Arctic cold, 

Nor where the south pole turns, erect thy home, 
Thence, like a star oblique, to frown on Rome ! 
Should thy weight fall to either half of heaven, 

Our world would reel. Hold thou the balance even 

In the celestial scales, nor let wide air 

Drive murky clouds athwart, with Caesar there ! 

So shall the race of man lay down its arms, 

And universal love extend the charms 
Of rapturous peace. My one inspirer thou 
In these my strains ! Nor do I need to vow 
Fond prayers to Delphi, nor bid Bacchus come ; 
With thee alone, I raise the hymn of Rome.” 


“ QUALIS ARTIFEX! 


13 


He ceased, and for a moment the theatre 
remained still, overcome by the fatigue of 
beauty and the miracle of Imperial generosity. 
For it was known to all that Lucan had 
attempted to rival the Emperor’s fame as a 
poet, and for this reason rather than for his 
share in conspiracy had been driven to volun- 
tary execution. Yet Nero’s clemency had 
not hesitated to recall his murdered rival’s 
verses from oblivion, and to add their blood- 
stained honour to his other crowns. There 
was further cause for astonished silence in the 
reflection that the flushed and ungainly figure, 
whose harsh and quavering voice had kept 
the audience spellbound for so many hours, 
embodied the redemption of the world. Nor 
could the spectators refrain from admiration 
of the decrees of fate whereby the human 
being whom they beheld before them, 
already distinguished for superhuman deeds 
of murder, arson, and unnatural vice, was 
destined in due course to ascend into heaven 
and sit at the right hand of God, choosing 
his place with care lest, by the weight of his 
genius and moral qualities, he should disturb 
the equilibrium of the balanced world. 


14 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


Such reflections were speedily interrupted 
by the renewed blows under which the popu- 
lace and prisoners were again excited to emu- 
late the hired enthusiasm of the plutocracy, 
and the graver approval of Senators, whose 
applause was ensured rather by fear of private 
assassination than by hope of gain. Under such 
conflicting motives, the testimony to the Em- 
peror’s genius rose to a frenzy only restrained 
by the apprehension lest an excess of admira- 
tion might provoke a repetition of the display. 
Kneeling before them, the Emperor expressed 
his gratification with the usual modesty of suc- 
cessful entertainers, and immediately com- 
manded the Praetorian officers to throw open 
the doors and eject the spectators from the 
enchanted atmosphere of imaginative delight 
into fche harsh realities of everyday existence. 
As when a good shepherd at morning, fearing 
the wolf no more, tears a gap in the close 
stockade, and the sheep pour into the open 
fields ceaselessly bleating, so did the audience 
issue into the streets of Rome, under the con- 
stellations of Saturn, Jupiter, and Eastern 
stars, already pallid with the approaching sun. 


QUALIS ARTIFEX! 


15 


Into a marble chamber of the Golden House 
the light of morning also forced itself. Still 
wearing Apollo’s aureole, the Emperor was 
seated upon a bed covered with embroidered 
purple. Supporting his head upon his two 
hands, he gazed at the streak of increasing 
light which entered between the curtains. 
His wanton favourite, together with one of 
the Consuls, an inferior officer, and two or 
three women stood silent in the room, un- 
willing to interrupt the Imperial meditation. 

“ I heard it again,” the Emperor said 
at last ; “ Tigellinus, I heard that voice 
again. It called to me from the tomb of 
Augustus. 4 Nero, Nero,’ it said, 4 a place is 
vacant.’ ” 

44 No wonder the gods are impatient,” 
his minion answered. 4 4 4 With roseate lips 
Augustus quaffs the nectar of heaven ’ — you 
know the lines. He desires a better comrade 
than God. But he must wait. It is not yet 
time for your ascension.” 

44 Oh, Tigellinus,” the Emperor continued, 
without noticing the consolation ; 44 if I 

should die before my task of redemption is 
fulfilled ! Sometimes I still question my 


16 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


powers. Often I approach my art as though 
I were still a novice, and even after my 
grandest performance the torturing uncer- 
tainty remains. The doubt always returns, 
it crucifies me afresh. Only by perfection 
is the hideousness of mankind redeemed. 
Shall I ever be reckoned among the world’s 
redeemers ? ” 

“ For fourteen years,” Tigellinus replied, 
“ you have stood at the summit of art. 
History tells of no parallel.” 

“ But if one reaches the summit and then 
declines ? ” the Emperor anxiously inter- 
rupted, “ How exacting art is ! Worse than 
love, it must be reconquered every day, and 
to touch perfection is death ! ” 

“ Immortals live by their perfection,” said 
the favourite. 

“ But I choose to be mortal,” the Emperor 
coldly answered, and, as though rousing 
himself from depression, he cried : “I am 
thirsty.” 

A girl held him a cup, and when he had 
drunk, he cried again, “ What report to- 
night ? ” 

“ From Marseilles and from Spain come 


“ QUALIS ARTIFEX! 


17 


rumours of increasing trouble,” the Consul 
answered. 

“ I mean what report about the audience ? ” 
said the Emperor, turning to a captain who 
had commanded in the theatre. 

“ Perfect order, Emperor,” the captain 
replied. “ One voice of uninterrupted 
applause.” 

“ The applause was then uncritical ? ” 
asked the Emperor. 

“ Criticism was silenced in wonder,” said 
the officer. “Only two of the audience re- 
mained contumacious, and both were aliens — 
a Jew and a Greek.” 

“ What fault did they find ? ” the Emperor 
anxiously inquired. 

“ The Jew criticised the cadence — the 
modulation of the verses and music. The 
Greek ventured to question the Emperor's 
divinity,” replied the captain. 

“ These Orientals have a different scale 
from ours,” the Emperor murmured reflec- 
tively. “ That difference would account for 
his want of appreciation. Theirs is a bar- 
baric scale, but perhaps it contains some new 
element of beauty. Bring the Jew here.” 


18 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


“ Emperor, I gave orders,” stammered the 
captain. 

“ Bring him alive or dead ! ” said the 
Emperor. “ And bring the wretched Greek, 
too ! ” he called out after the officer, who 
hurried away. 

“Not that I have anything against the 
Greek,” he continued more calmly, subsiding 
on to the bed again ; “as you know, I have 
always preferred not to be God. What credit 
has a god ? Who praises Jove for his thunder, 
or Apollo for his song ? Of course Apollo 
sings well, and plays the harp well, and drives 
the sun to perfection. Being a god, perfection 
costs him nothing. But that a mortal man 
should sing — that a mortal man should have 
devised the harp string — that is cause for 
glory and amazement.” 

“ In his person Caesar unites both God and 
man,” said Tigellinus. 

“ A god can feel no pain, whatever Homer 
says of his whimpering Venus,” the Emperor 
continued. “ What should a god know of 
the artist’s anguish, the hesitation and 
anxiety, the labour of practice, the misery of 
self-distrust ? With scarce one stride, the 


“ QUALIS ARTIFEX! 


19 


speeding god arrives— if you will accept an 
impromptu verse. He knows nothing of the 
uncertain start, the torture of choice when so 
many paths lie open, the timid advance, the 
despairing doubt, the evil spirits of scorn and 
criticism that laugh and howl from ditches 
and dark corners. It is as impossible for 
Apollo to miss his note as for Artemis to 
wanton, or Zeus to submit. And the one 
deserves no more praise for music than the 
others for chastity or fortitude. But that a 
mere mortal should conceive such beauty as 
lies in my verse : — 

“ ‘ A radiance glimmers on the rock-dove’s neck, 
Whene’er he moves ’ — 

or that a son of man should stir the Roman 
populace to rapture — that is a thing to 
marvel at. It is a miracle more than divine.” 

“ A miracle indeed ! ” exclaimed Tigellinus. 
“ But no one questions the divinity of Caesars, 
especially when they die. For death releases 
the god.” 

“ In the course of years,” the Emperor 
continued, with deeper melancholy, “ in the 
course of years I shall follow my predecessors 
into heaven, perhaps avoiding the painful 

2—2 


20 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


transition of death, perhaps rising almost at 
once from the dead, as Divine Augustus rose. 
But there is no call for haste, since eternity 
is not shortened by the loss of years. On 
earth alone the artist has his opportunity. 
How many more years have I before I become 
a god ? Nearly half my time is gone, and so 
little is yet accomplished. My God, my God ! 
What if my genius should forsake me!” 

“ Heaven and earth are full of the majesty 
of your art,” said Tigellinus. 

“ How can I know ? How can I know ? ” 
the Emperor repeated impatiently. “ Per- 
haps it is worse to be Emperor than to be 
God. I may fall short of perfection and never 
know it. Whom can I trust ? Who will dare 
to criticise the commander of innumerable 
legions ? Bring me that Jew ! Bring me 
that Jew, I say! Perhaps he is capable of 
criticism.” 

“ The captain has not returned,” said the 
Consul, who was leaning wearily against the 
door. “ It is late. It is almost day. Perhaps 
he could not find the prisoner.” 

“ Will you not sleep now, Prince ? ” said 
a girl, coming sleepily towards him, and 


QUALIS ARTIFEX! 


21 


kneeling to cherish his bare feet against her 
breast. 

“ I cannot sleep to-night,” he said. “ Some- 
thing is falling — falling. Is it the glory of my 
art that is falling ? ‘ Nero, Nero ! A seat is 
vacant ! ’ cried the voice from the tomb. Is 
my seat among the poets vacant ? What 
chance has the world’s ruler of reaching per- 
fection ? He is like old Seneca, always 
pretending to pursue middle- class moderation 
in the midst of his millions. What avails a 
Golden House, a marble lake, with all the 
legions and girls of every shape and colour 
thrown in, unless my genius is fulfilled ? 
Oh, I will wander far away. I will sing from 
land to land. I will sing in the black tents of 
deserts. German forests shall judge me. My 
harp shall sound across the straits of misty 
islands. I will wear the skins of beasts. I 
will sleep in cattle-sheds, and eat the free 
gifts of stream and wilderness. At evening, 
the savages will gather round me. They will 
listen all night under the moon. If my singing 
fails, they will tell me. They will slit my 
beautiful, singing throat. Like a slaughtered 
thrush, I shall not sing any more. That will 


22 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


be a nobler fate than rotting amid grandeur, 
uncertain of my powers.” 

No one spoke. All but the Consul were 
asleep, leaning against the walls or chairs. 
Two girls leant against the bed itself. 

“ Tell me!” the Emperor whispered sud- 
denly to the Consul. “ Tell me ! What was 
that news from the West ? ” 

“ The news, Emperor, grows daily worse,” 
replied the Consul. “ In the south of France 
the army has gone over to Vindex, in Spain 
to Galba. It is thought they intend marching 
on Rome by the coast road, as they have no 
fleet.” 

“ Marching on Rome ! Marching on 
Rome ! ” the Emperor repeated, meditat- 
ing. “ What themes for drama those words 
recall ! ” 

There was silence for a time, and then he 
continued in an eager whisper : — 

“ Listen, Consul. I know my purpose. 
The gods have granted me the supreme 
occasion to glorify their name. Listen. I 
will meet the army on its way. I will intercept 
it by boat at the Forum of Julius before it 
enters Italy. There the legions shall behold 


QUALIS ARTIFEX! 


23 


the last of the Caesars an outcast upon the 
shore. Standing in the path of the columns 
as they march I will sing the glories of the 
Augustan race. I will declaim to them the 
Virgilian praise of Italy. I will weep, I will 
tear their hearts with pathos. I will implore 
them to stay their sacrilegious hands. So at 
last I shall prove my artistic power. No one 
will flatter me there. My strength will come 
from art alone. And when Rome is saved, 
I shall be acclaimed throughout the world as 
its redeemer. What glory then to art, to 
music, eloquence, poetry, and to the God 
who is my Father ! ” 

“ Tigers and dolphins have yielded to 
music,” said the Consul. “ It will be a greater 
miracle when legions and fleets yield to its 
enchantment.” 

“ I will trust to art alone,” the Emperor 
continued, “ to art and the charm of per- 
sonality. I will dress in a threadbare tunic, 
with a ragged blue cloak over one shoulder. 
My wealth of sunny hair shall hang in careful 
disorder about my neck. What a vision of 
humility I shall appear when I stand despised 
and rejected of men ! With what ecstasy 


24 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


they will hear me tell that I am the Emperor 
of the world and the son of God ! Give me a 
mirror.’ * 

The Consul handed him a decorated circle 
of silver, shot with blue so as to tone down 
the Emperor’s fiery complexion. It reflected 
the first ray of the rising sun, which now 
pierced the curtains with a thin, crimson line, 
like a sword. At the same moment the captain 
returned. 

“ Well ? ” said the Emperor, indifferently, 
as he contemplated his face sideways in the 
mirror. 

“ Emperor, I have brought the Greek 
prisoner,” said the captain. 

“ It was the Jew I wanted,” remarked the 
Emperor, still keeping his eyes on his own 
reflection, as he moved the mirror into 
various positions. 

“ Unhappily,” said the captain, “ I was 
just too late for the Jew. The soldier to 
whom he had been chained at night for many 
months past, hearing his offence and my 
orders, beheaded him at once. He said he 
was sick of being kept awake by his super- 
stitious conversation.” 


“QUALIS ARTIFEX!” 


25 


“ What a nuisance ! ” said the Emperor, 
arranging his hair. 

“ The prisoner,” continued the captain, 
“ was only a Jew, though he boasted he was 
born in some Roman borough of Asia, and 
had taken the Roman name of Paulus. But 
I saw the head — hideous, unquestionably 
Jewish.” 

“ So another artist suffers,” sighed the 
Emperor. 

“ No, Prince,” replied the captain ; “ I was 
guilty of a slight confusion. It was the Jew 
denied the Emperor’s divinity. He said your 
Majesty bore no resemblance to an incarnate 
god. The Greek ventured on criticism, and 
I have him here alive.” 

“ Oh, take him away,” said the Emperor 
wearily. “ What is the use of another Greek 
critic to me ? A Greek can tell me nothing 
new. It was the Oriental I wanted. You may 
go. See that this does not happen again.” 

“ Consul,” he continued, as the captain 
went out, “ these Jews have always attracted 
me. They possess some curious secret that I 
must discover. If my appeal to the army 
fails, and I am driven from Italy, I shall 


26 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


retire upon Syria, occupy Jerusalem, and 
become king of the Jews.” 

“ They are a priest-ridden people,” the 
Consul answered. 44 They object to mon- 
archical government, and are always on the 
look-out for some miraculous patriot to 
redeem them from union with our Empire.” 

“ I will be their redeemer,” Nero replied. 
“ There is no calculating the miracles I could 
perform.” 

“ But, come ! ” he cried, rousing himself as 
though from a vision. “ Wake up, Tigellinus ! 
Wake up, all of you, and put your Emperor 
to bed ! The sun shines, and it is time for 
peace. Hang Apollo’s golden diadem among 
my other prizes at the foot of the bed, so that 
I may gaze upon it till I fall asleep, and Apollo 
himself, peering through the curtains, may 
behold a crown of glory such as no deity 
wins.” 


II 


sly’s awakening 

npHE white mist of early autumn hung upon 
the wandering river and low-lying meadows 
of Wincot ; but the stars were clear over- 
head, and a high moon showed the thin and 
broken line of cottages along the road from 
Burton Heath. It was not late ; but the 
village had gone to bed at dark, and the 
silence was all the deeper for the heavy foot- 
step of a belated ditcher going home, and the 
calling of sheep driven that afternoon into a 
new fold. Only at Mother Hacket’s ale- 
house of “ The Golden Fleece,” just where 
the village ended and the heath began, a 
murmur of voices could still now and again 
be heard ; and a lighted window made a pale 
gleam upon the shadow thrown by the moon. 

On the bench below the window, four men 
were still seated, each with a big mug at his 
side. With expectant interest, they were 
gazing at a queer-looking heap which lay 
motionless upon the road, a little blacker than 
the darkness. 


28 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


“ Hear him breathe ! ” muttered one of 
them. “ Like a grampus in love ! ” 

Balancing himself on his hands, he stretched 
out a foot till he touched the dark heap and 
for a moment raised a man's arm, which then 
fell limply over on the other side, throwing up 
a little puff of dust. 

“ That’s what I call royal drunk. You’ve 
never been as drunk as that, Henry Pimper- 
nell,” he said, turning defiantly to a little 
man further along the bench. 

“ I couldn’t say for as drunk as that, John 
Naps,” answered the little man ; “ but I 
have been drunk.” 

“ Never as drunk as that, was what I said, 
you white-faced weasel,” said John Naps. 
“ It takes a man to be as drunk as that.” 

“ You’re right, John Naps, you’re right,” 
murmured Stephen Sly. “ It takes a man ; 
and Christopher’s my own flesh and blood, 
praise God.” 

“ Why, I’ve not been so drunk as that 
myself,” the big man went on, “ not more 
than ten or a dozen times. And one of those 
times was my second wedding, when I’d got 
to make Widow Wryneck believe there was 


SLY’S AWAKENING 


29 


only one thing I cared for in all this ’varsal 
world, and that was beauty. It took a deal 
of drinking, that did.” 

“ Not such noble drinking as this before us 
now,” said Peter Turf. “ It’s all sack, this 
is — best sack, solid sack. Why, I tell you it’s 
a heap of gold that’s lying there — pure gold 
melted ! ” 

“ Drunk is drunk, no matter for gold or 
pewter,” John Naps retorted. “ I tell you 
I’ve been as drunk as that ten or a dozen 
times. Anybody wishing to deny the same 
has only to say so.” 

He glared round upon the other three ; 
but Pimpernell struck in peacefully : “ They 
say my lord’s orders was he should swim in 
it. Good thing, ’twasn’t me. For why, I’d 
have been drownded, bein’ no swimmer.” 

He laughed ; but, as no one else laughed, 
he was suddenly silent. 

“ Sack’s not the only thing as my brother 
Christopher has swum in,” said Stephen Sly. 
44 Smell him ? That’s rosewater, that is, like 
my lord’s. Why, Mother Hacket’s old black 
bitch didn’t so much as bark at him. His 
lordship’s servants took and laid him down 


30 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


there ; and she didn’t so much as bark. She 
snuffed a gentleman.” 

“ I know the sniff well enough,” said John 
Naps. “ I’ve smelt of it myself at one time, 
through me being a gentleman born, albeit 
not bred.” 

“ They say he got bread and beef enough 
to feed a troop of horse,” said Pimpernell. 

“ Aye, and that’s a goodish gat,” John 
Naps answered. “ I’ve been in a troop of 
horse myself. I could eat out all the rest. 
It was a raging, tearing company we were. 
We came pretty nigh going to Flanders for 
the wars.” 

“ He seed the players beside, and cost him 
never a groat,” said Peter Turf. 

“ Nor me neither when I was young,” said 
John Naps. “ Never a groat. For why, I 
was one of them. I was dressed in a blanket ; 
and they called me Naps of Greece.” 

“ They say he kept on calling out to his 
lady to make haste,” Pimpernell went on. 
“ Peter the Huntsman was telling me of it. 
‘ Madam wife, be quick, be quick,’ says 
Christopher ; and the page boy was dressed 
like a lady born, and keeps running in and 


SLY’S AWAKENING 


31 


saying : ‘ There’s no such hurry. Just one 
cup more, dear my lord/ she keeps on saying. 
‘ My lord has returned like the Prodigal from 
the swine/ she says, ‘ and this is our wedding 
day over again.’ So he tries to catch hold on 
her ; and she keeps on giving him more sack 
and more sack, till he goes right off. And 
there he lies.” 

“ Some folks have luck, some have not,” 
said Peter Turf. 

“ Don’t you talk about luck till you see 
him come round,” said Pimpernell. “ That’s 
when the sport’ll begin, won’t it, John Naps ? 
Aye, that’ll be the sport, to see him come 
round ! ” 

“ Stop your squawking,” said John Naps ; 
“ it’s just going to begin.” 

All fixed their eyes upon the figure in the 
road. It groaned, it stirred, it drew up its 
legs. 

“ You’re right, John Naps, you’re always 
right,” whispered Pimpernell excitedly. “But 
how if we went on with the pretending ? 
And I’ll be madam wife, because I’ve got a 
pretty voice.” 

“ No, I’d best be madam wife,” said John 


32 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


Naps. “ I’ve been among gentlefolks when 
I was a fighting man. I’ve stood behind my 
lady’s chair and heard her say ‘ Grammercy ’ 
and ‘ Beshrew thy dear heart.’ I’ve heard 
that with these very ears.” 

“ You’re a great man, John Naps ; but 
you don’t sound female,” Pimpernell pro- 
tested. “ I tell you what — you whisper me 
what a lady born would say, and I’ll squeak 
it soft and sweet as any sperrit.” 

The figure in the dust turned heavily on 
its side. 

“ Where is the life that late I led ? ” it 
sang, in a thick and tuneless voice. 

“ It’s passing off,” whispered John Naps. 
“ Good sack do pass off wonderful quick. 
I’ve drunk the fag ends of it after a castle 
feast. It’s a ladylike drink — makes you 
merry and passes quick.” 

“ Quick as my dinner,” said Peter Turf. 

“ Where is the life that late I led ? ” 
droned out the figure, now sitting up in the 
dust and gazing stupidly around. 

“ Take up the song, Henry Pimpernell, 
take him up at that,” whispered John Naps, 
and at once began singing : 


SLY’S AWAKENING 


33 


“ Where is the life that late I led ? 

And where are those of my company ? 

The bottle’s dry and the rose is dead, 

A toad is couched in my lady’s bed, 

And never a kiss for me.” 

“ Well sung, actor, well sung,” said the 
figure, peering about. “ He’s a brave actor. 
See him lay on to that hussy Kate with a 
whip. ‘ Serves her right,’ says I. ‘ Her’s a 
hussy,’ says I. When’s all done, madam wife ? 
There’s many a kiss for me, praise God, when 
all’s done. Hurry ’em along, madam wife. 
I can’t hardly abide this tarrying.” 

“ Have patience, my gentle lord,” whis- 
pered John Naps, while Pimpernell repeated 
the words in a high-pitched voice. “ The 
doctor said you must have patience. Else 
you’ll go stark, staring mad again, and think 
yourself a dirty tinker.” 

“ Where are you, madam wife ? ” said the 
figure. “ It’s ’most dark, and all the folks 
gone. Is this our bedchamber? Bring me 
that smelling water, boy, in the silver basin. 
I’m going to my madam wife.” 

“ You creep indoors and tell Mother Hacket 
to come out,” whispered John Naps to Peter 


34 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


Turf. “ Say the sport’s just starting off. 
And call out the wench Cicely too.” 

Peter Turf stole on tiptoe into the house, 
while Pimpernell covered his retreat by 
repeating squeakily : “ Patience, my sweet 
lord. You must have patience. Only a 
little longer still.” 

“ No more o’ that, I tell you ! ” cried the 
man, struggling in the dust to get up. “ Fif- 
teen year is a long fast. I tell you, that’s 
patience enough for me. I won’t have no 
more patience. Let me clutch hold on you, 
madam wife, and I’ll patience you, or my 
name’s not Kit Sly.” 

“ No more it isn’t, most gracious lord,” said 
John Naps, in a gentle tenor. “ Your lordship’s 
name be Christophero, Baron of Wincot-cum- 
Burton, Knight of the Golden Fleece, Armiger. 
Wherefore you must have patience, as befits a 
man of your quality.” 

“ Bring me my woman, boy,” cried Christo- 
pher. “ Bring me my madam wife, or I’ll 
wring your scurvy neck ! I’d sooner be no 
quality and have my wench.” 

“ Hark, hark, my lord ! ” said John Naps. 
“ Methinks I hear a fairy footstep fall. ’Tis 


SLY’S AWAKENING 


35 


she ! ’Tis she ! The queen of beauty comes ! 
Blow up the sackbut ! Burst the thunderous 
drums ! Let doors be oped and marriage 
music roar ! Let burning bridegroom kiss 
expectant floor ! ” 

Pimpernell began to whistle with all his 
might, beating time with his quart pot upon 
the bench. 

The inn door opened, and Peter Turf was 
seen coming out backwards, bowing low at 
every step. In his right hand he carried a 
lanthorn, which threw a dim light upon the 
huge red face and swelling figure of the hostess, 
before whom he made obeisance. 

“ Arise, my lord ! Salute your lady’s 
hand ! ” cried John Naps, taking the prostrate 
man by the arm. “ See where it glimmers like a 
clouded moon, battling with tempest ! Many’s 
the time I’ve seen it battle with old Hacket’s 
crown,” he added, aside to Pimpernell. 

“ Look at him ! Look how he gapes on 
her ! ” answered Pimpernell, rubbing his 
hands between his meagre thighs, and laugh- 
ing silently for joy. “ Oh, this is what I call 
sport, rare sport. He’s better sport than a 
bear with her snout tore off ! ” 


3-2 


36 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


Mother Hacket had paused for a moment in 
the doorway, and was looking round with a 
fat smile of conscious triumph. Then, gather- 
ing up her red flannel petticoat like a train, 
and displaying a colossal leg beneath, she 
swept slowly down the three brick steps. With 
proud gait and head erect she came. At every 
movement her breasts shook like jelly. 

“ This way, sweet highness, to his lordship’s 
chamber,” cried John Naps, joining Peter 
Turf and bowing low before her. “ With 
yearning heart-strings he awaits you there.” 

The man had risen from the dust, and stood 
crouching down, his head thrown forward, his 
eyes staring at the scene with horror and fear. 

“Not yet ! Not yet ! ” he cried, running 
backwards as the woman approached. “ I 
don’t want no madam wife yet. It’s too soon. 
You’re quite right. I must have patience. 
You told me how it ’ud be if I didn’t have 
patience. You’re quite right. It’s cornin’ 
true. Take her away ! Take her away ! I 
don’t want my madam wife.” 

John Naps and Peter Turf faced round 
towards him and held up their outspread 
hands in dismay, turning their eyes to heaven. 


SLY’S AWAKENING 


37 


“ Alas, great lordship,” cried John Naps, 
“ how is thy brain perturbed ! Too long’s 
thine abstinence from female charm ; and 
beauty’s aspect brings thy dreams again. Go 
to him, madam, set thy cheek to his, and 
whisper amorously : ‘ Husband, sweetest 

heart ! What, wouldst thou fly before thy 
wedded love, nor seek the solace of these 
copious arms ? Rest on this bosom, it shall 
cherish thee. ’Tis thine, and thine alone — 
with space for three.’ Perchance his wits by 
love may be restored ; for love’s omnipotent, 
as poets tell.” 

“ Come, husband,” said Mother Hacket, 
waddling into the dusty road with outstretched 
arms. “ Come to your wedded wife. She’ll 
give you such a cherish as you never had 
before, nor you’ll never get another like it. 
Don’t you keep runnin’ off, love, as if you 
didn’t know your own lawful bosom ! ” 

“ Take her away ! Take her away ! ” cried 
the man, backing along the road in terror. 
“ Boys, pages, huntsmen — oh, somebody keep 
her off ! I’m going mad again ! It’s the fat 
ale wife — the filthy baggage of Wincot ! 
Where’s my lady wife ? Keep her off, I say ! 


38 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


Where’s my lady wife ? She’s thin and clean. 
She has yellow hair and a violet shift. Oh, 
where’s my lady wife ? ” 

“ Aye, you rogue, you hedgerow thief!” 
shouted Mother Hacket, panting up the road 
after him, and shaking both fists in his face. 
“ I’ll show you where’s your lady wife, you 
gallow’s carrion ! I’ll show you, you hog- 
wash ! ‘ Filthy baggage ! ’ was the word, 

was it ? And it’s baggage I’ll make of you, 
and filthy too ! But it isn’t fat you’ll be at 
the end of it, you split sliver, you unravelled 
thread ! Thought you were a lord, did you ? 
And an armiger, did you ? I’ll armiger you, 
you gutter broom, you variegated mop, you 
sodden dish-clout ! Just you pay me that 
fourteen pence for the beer. Aye, you know 
well enough what I mean, you tag-rag of 
creation ! I’ll teach you to come here talking 
of fat and filth, and owing me fourteen pence, 
and me a suffering and helpless widow that 
hasn’t so much as a husband to protect me, 
and four grown men standin’ there and nothing 
but laugh to see me set upon, and put upon, 
and called names at, and bedraggled out of my 
warm bed to do them pleasure ! ” 


SLY’S AWAKENING 


39 


A chorus of mingled deep and squeaky 
laughter went up from the four men who 
looked on from the ale-house steps. 

“ It’s sport, rare sport indeed,” cried 
Pimpernell. “ You’re right, John Naps, 
you’re always right. No mortal man could 
hope to see better sport this side salvation.” 

“ ’Tis but his passion hath distraught his 
wits,” said John Naps soothingly to the 
hostess. “ But madness yields to woman’s 
gentle art. To him, sweet lady, calm his 
crazed brain.” 

“ Brain ? ” she cried, toilsomely starting 
upon another advance. “ I’ll brain him right 
enough ! I’ll boil him in his own pot, the 
dirty tinker. Let me just catch you, you 
bear-herd, you dancing prong ! Let me just 
catch you, and I’ll chop you up so as your 
own bears ’ll eat you for putrid horse, and 
never know the differ ! ” 

But the black figure down the road made a 
sudden dash past her, dodged under her arm, 
stumbled, and fell heavily among the others 
by the steps. 

“ Oh, save me ! ” he cried. “ Servants, 
pages, madam lady, where are you all ? I’m 


40 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


going mad. Call the physician. Quick ! I 
tell you I’m going mad again ! Will nobody 
take pity on a lord ? ” 

Another outburst of laughter was the 
answer ; and Pimpernell went dancing round 
in a half circle, squealing with delight. 

“ My lord,” said John Naps solemnly, 
“ your grievous fortune rends our very hearts. 
But now we’ll bear you to * The Golden 
Fleece ’ (so do we call your cell while madness 
lasts), and there commend you to your phan- 
tasies, — strange, boorish figments that you 
rave about, as Pimpernell and Peter Turf and 
one John Naps — a man distinct, and famed 
for noble parts — and Marian Hacket with her 
lubber maid, evil communications for a lord. 
Hark, how my lady doth lament thereat ! ” 

“ You say right, John Naps, you say right,” 
cried the hostess, standing over the moaning 
form. “ Marian Hacket is my name ; and 
I’ll let him know it, mad or not. Stand up, 
you finikin rogue, you gutted eel ! Call your- 
self a lord, and owe me fourteen pence for 
beer ! I’ll teach you how to be a lord and 
smell like scent ! ” 

Hooking her fingers like claws, she rolled 


SLY’S AWAKENING 


41 


forward, stooping for another assault. But 
the man sprang up again, and flung himself 
into the arms of Stephen Sly, who stood con- 
templating the scene with a vacant stare. 

“ Oh, save me ! save me ! ” he cried, hiding 
his face. “ Aren’t you my own brother 
Stephen ? You’re not no dream. It’s agen 
nature for an own brother to be a dream, nor 
yet a madness. For the love of Christ, Stephen, 
don’t you let go of me ! ” 

“ You’re a’ right,” said Stephen in his slow 
drawl ; “ an’ I’m a’ right. Never you fret.” 

Clinging to him for shelter, Christopher 
looked cautiously round till he saw the fat 
hostess, threatening violence still, but held 
back by John Naps. 

“ Be that a dream, Stephen ? ” he whis- 
pered ; “ or be that a madness ? Or be that 
the hell-fire truth ? ” 

“ Her’s a’ right,” drawled Stephen sooth- 
ingly. “ Her’s no more a dream than what 
a bag-pudden’ be.” 

“ A pair o’ rogues ! ” the hostess screamed, 
struggling vainly against the arm round her 
body ; “a pair of sheep-rot rogues ! Two 
ticks from the same fleece ! ” 


42 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


“Nay, heed them not, my lady, they but 
rave,” said John Naps, tightening his grip till 
the woman gasped. “ Madness doth run in 
noble families. It runs with land, and 
blossoms in blue blood. ,, 

“ Isn’t that John Naps of Sheppingdon ? ” 
said Christopher, turning round and letting 
go his brother. “ And isn’t that Henry 
Pimpernell, the scab doctor ? And Peter 
Turf ? And you be my own brother Stephen. 
All of you seems solid enough. Which way 
is it I’ve been mad ? ” 

“ You’re a’ right,” said Stephen. “ You’ve 
not been mad at all, neither way. You never 
was no other but Christopher Sly, the tinker, 
and my own flesh and blood. So you’re a’ 
right.” 

“ I thought I were a lord. I couldn’t 
rightly say for why,” said Christopher ; and 
he moved away slowly, and sat down on the 
bench, with his face in his hands. 

All the others laughed again. 

“ 0 my sweet lord ! My six-hour lord ! ” 
squeaked Pimpernell, peering into Christo- 
pher’s face with his hands on his thighs. 
“ Drunk they took you up, and drunk they 


SLY’S AWAKENING 


43 


set you down ; and all the time between, you 
was a lord ; and a page-boy was your lady ! ” 

“ It’s all over now, I’ll be thinkin’,” said 
Peter Turf, turning to go away. “ I’m sorry 
it’s all over. There’s no wake nor Christmas 
gambol nor churchyard play I’ve enjoyed so 
hearty as this here sport. And now it’s all 
done.” 

“ Not it ! ” cried the hostess. “ That’s not 
all done, not till that crawlin’ knave pays me 
down my fourteen pence.” 

“ Content thee, wife, thy lucre shall be 
paid,” said John Naps, sitting down on the 
bench beside Christopher. “ There’s Peter 
Turf stands yearning to disburse.” 

“ Not me ! ” cried Peter. “ Not fourteen 
pence ! I’ll give a groat. I reckon the sport 
was worth just about a groat to me. Let’s 
all give a groat ; and then there’s twopence 
over for a drink.” 

“ ’Tis done, ’tis done ! In spirit it is done,” 
said John Naps. “ Go, Lady Marian Hacket 
of the ‘ Fleece,’ bring out the drink ; we’ll 
owe you four pence each ! Come, rouse thee, 
Christopher, look not so glum ! To have been 
a lord six hours is more than most ; and one 


44 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


bright glimpse of heaven doth not mean death. 
Though lordship’s gone, thou yet remainst a 
man ! Ah, well, well ! I always knew the 
Lord made me for a poet : 

“ Give me the nut-brown ale, 

Give me a nut-brown maid, 

Give me a wench on an ale-house bench, 

Where never a soul’s afraid. 

But leave to my lord his lady pale, 

To sit in the castle shade, 

To drink sweet wine in a goblet fine, 

And kiss in the castle’s shade ; 

Till somebody comes with trumpets and drums 
And the blow of a shining blade.” 

As he sang, he kept slapping Christopher 
cheerily on the back. 

“ What, Christophero ! ” he cried. “ Not 
a word to say to an old friend ? Aren’t you 
glad to see us again after being a lord ? 
Wasn’t it a bit thin and cold up there, my 
boy? 

“ 0 leave to my lord his lady pale, 

To sit in the castle shade. ” 

While he was singing, the girl Cicely came out, 
carrying a jug of beer and a pewter mug on a 
wooden board. Naps filled the cup and held 
it under Christopher’s nose. 


SLY’S AWAKENING 


45 


“ Here, lad,” he said. “ Here’s something 
to comfort thy poor soul.” 

But Christopher kept his face covered with 
his hands, and did not move. 

“ It’s better than sweet wine, boy,” said 
Naps, “ beside being more conformable with 
your state of life.” 

“ Not it,” said Christopher, without looking 
up. 

“ He’s right,” said Peter Turf, “ it’s puttin’ 
the beggar atop of the gentleman, to drink 
small ale on top of golden sack. It’s flat 
rebellion, that’s what it is.” 

“ Heaven above ! how fine we’re all 
gettin’,” said Pimpernell. “ We’ve took it 
all from Christopher. He was born to be 
a lord, was Christopher. He always did 
say the Slys came in with Richard Con- 
queror.” 

“ And it’s true,” said Stephen Sly. “ Good 
blood and old. Me and Christopher, we’re 
full of it, like two butts of wine.” 

“ Arouse thee, Christopher, said Naps, 
thumping the silent man again on the back. 
“ Here’s your true sweetheart come to 
welcome you back from glory. You set 


46 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


yourself down beside him, Cicely, and put 
your arms round his neck.” 

“ Oh, sir, I don’t hardly like,” said Cicely, 
sitting down at Christopher’s side. 

“ Tell him how true you’ve kept all day,” 
Naps continued, “ for all his gadding among 
the mighty and making love to Lord knows 
what.” 

“ I’ve always kind of fancied you, Master 
Sly, ever since we first kep’ company,” said 
the girl, leaning her head against his shoulder. 

“ And you’ve always been a-hankerin’ 
after Cicely, Christopher,’ said Pimpernell, 
“ uncommon hankerin’ you’ve been. I’ve 
watched you stand and stare at her through 
that winder all afternoon, sooner than do 
honest labour like me.” 

“ Clutch hold on her, man,” cried Naps ; 
“ you’ve got her now. It’s the chance you’ve 
been waiting for like the day of glory. You 
kiss him, wench, kiss him quick. It’s a 
wonderful reviving is being kissed. I speak 
what I know, God be praised.” 

“ Oh, sir, I don’t hardly like,” said the girl ; 
but she stretched out her chubby lips and 
kissed him hard on the cheek. “ Don’t you 


SLY’S AWAKENING 


47 


know me, Christopher ? ” she said. “ I’m the 
maid you’ve been followin’ after, these two 
year come bear-baitin’.” 

“ Why, Christopher,” said Pimpernell, en- 
couragingly, “ it was all along of her you gave 
up being bear-herd, because she said she 
couldn’t never ado with bears in her kitchen.” 

“ Look at me, ole man,” said the girl, 
nestling up against his side, and putting an 
arm round him under his coat. “ Let’s come 
close up to you, ole man. I kind o’ like the 
smell of you to-night, Christopher. You 
smells furrin’.” 

Christopher moved at last. Almost un- 
consciously he leaned back and put one hand 
upon the girl’s neck, feeling the softness of it 
along the edge of her canvas bodice. But sud- 
denly drawing his breath in hard through his 
nose, he started up with violence, shaking the 
bench from end to end and spilling the beer. 

“ There’s that there stink upon me still ! ” 
he cried. “ Ain’t there no dunghill round 
these ways ? ” 

“ Aye, just adown the lane,” said Peter 
Turf. “ You’ll feel it warm and smoking like 
the Last Judgment.” 


48 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


As Christopher staggered away in the dark, 
Pimpernell called after him : “ Don’t be high- 
stomached, boy, there’s nobody means you 
no harm.” 

“ High-stomached it is,” said Peter Turf. 
“ I’d a lurcher bitch like that once — ate a 
woodcock and never gnawed honest bone 
again. Fine-bred bitch too, same as bit 
Stephen for laughin’ at her blind pups.” 

“ Aye, fine bred she were,” said Stephen. 
“ So be the Slys fine bred ; that’s why.” 

“ We’ll make a marriage on it this very 
night,” said John Naps, who had been silently 
contemplating the darkness where Christopher 
disappeared. “ Turf, summon fat old Hacket 
back. Oh, here you are, Mistress Marian, 
looming like rosy morn ! Bring more beer, 
and bread and onions therewith, mistress 
mine. We’ll make a merry night of it ; and 
so to church by noon.” 

“Not another bite or sup do you get from 
me, John Naps,” said the hostess, planting 
her fists against her sides. “ And if that 
there indecent wench don’t come to bed this 
very minute, she’ll have to stay and marry in 
a ditch, as the saying is.” 


SLY’S AWAKENING 


49 


“ I’m sorry I ever tried to make a lady of 
you, Mother Backet/’ said John Naps, begin- 
ning to move slowly away. “ I thought 
you’d make a good lady ; but you’re a sow’s 
ear, Mistress Hacket, — a sow’s ear, though 
nobody wouldn’t think it to look at you. I’ve 
always told the neighbours you were a real 
lady at heart, and good-looking, too, if 
dressed ladylike, as anybody could see for 
theirselves. But it’s no good — no good. 
And yet I’ve always thought there was the 
making of a fine lady in Mistress Marian 
Hacket. You’d say so to look at her.” 

“ What is it you’re after now, you battered 
old carcase? ” said the hostess in a gentler tone. 

“ Oh, nothing, madam ; nothing at all,” 
said Naps, taking under his arm his rusty 
sword without a scabbard. “ A lady might 
have given us a thing or two to eat and drink 
after the merry time we’ve made her. But 
a lady’s a lady ; and there isn’t one here — for 
all I thought there was.” 

“ I don’t begrudge you nothing in reason. 
Master Naps,” said the hostess, catching hold 
of his tattered cloak as he moved solemnly 
away. “ You always was a gentleman born.” 


50 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


“ It’s not for myself, woman,” said John 
Naps, turning slowly back, “ it’s for that poor 
varlet I make petition. Give him good cheer, 
woman. Make him remember the glories of 
our humble state. Spread out our frugal fare 
and peace therewith. Tear thyself awhile, 
fair Cicely, from dreams of future bliss, and 
lend thine aid unto the lady more mature.” 

The two women bustled about, setting a 
rough table by the bench, and bringing bread 
and cold bacon and raw onions. Just as all 
was ready, Pimpernell cried out : “ Here he 
is a-comin’ back. I always said he’d come 
back like a kicked dog, through feelin* 
lonely.” 

“ Why, Christopher, what have you been 
doin’ at yourself ? ” said Peter Turf. “ Have 
you been rollin’ on the dungheap or what ? 
My word, you don’t smell furrin’ now. You 
smell mighty homely, I’m thinkin’.” 

But Christopher sat down at the end of the 
table without taking any notice. 

“ Bring me my ale,” he said in a sullen 
voice. 

Cicely put the great jug at his side, and 
watched him while he drank it to the bottom. 


SLY’S AWAKENING 


51 


Then she sat down like the others, and they 
began supper. 

“ That’s right, boy,” cried John Naps, 
holding up half an onion on the point of his 
knife. “ Eat your food, and drink your 
drink, and kiss your girl. We’ll never be 
younger, young as we all are, thank God. 
Ply him, girl, ply him. He always was one 
for victuals and drink, was Christopher — just 
like me.” 

“ Take a bit, ole man,” said Cicely, leaning 
against Christopher’s side, and holding up a 
slice of bacon in her fingers. “ It’s fair lean.” 

Christopher looked at it for a moment, and 
then devoured it hungrily. 

“ That’s right,” said Mistress Hacket. “ No 
dogs for me that sniff at their victuals, and 
think theirselves cats.” 

The meal went on in hungry silence for a 
time. 

“ You may kiss him again now, girl,” said 
John Naps, leaning back at last. “ Kiss him 
again. He’s blowin’ out fuller and fuller, and 
kissing is very comforting so long as a man’s 
full. I’ve always found it comforting, no 
matter with whom, so long as I’m full.” 

4—2 


52 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


Thrusting a mouthful of bread and onions 
into the side of her cheek with her tongue, the 
girl leaned sideways, drew Christopher’s arm 
round her neck, and put up her mouth to be 
kissed. Letting go the jug of beer with the 
other hand, he flung himself upon her, 
dragged her head backwards by the hair, and 
hid his face deep in her neck below the chin. 

There was a roar of laughter and applause 
from all the rest. 

“ Have done ! Have done, Master Sly ! ” 
cried the girl, spluttering with laughter. 
“ You had ought to wait till we’s alone.” 

“ Now, that’s what I call a good endin’,” 
said the hostess. “ That’s how a man ought 
to behave — any man worth callin’. That’s 
what they’d all ought to do ; and I’ve seen 
something in my day, praise God.” 

“ Didn’t I tell you there’ d be a marriage in 
the morn?” shouted John Naps above the 
laughter. “ Well done, Christopher : we 
want more of you well-bred tinkers. You 
always were a rare one for the girls— just like 
me, for all my being a bit more particular. 
I’m for a lady born, glory be to God — not but 
what Cicely’s a buxom wench.” 


SLY’S AWAKENING 


53 


“ I’d not mind takin’ her,” squeaked 
Pimpernell, “ albeit I’m her betters.” 

“ Nor me,” said Peter Turf, “ for all she’s 
not the female that I’d choose.” 

“ Never mind for whom you’d choose,” said 
John Naps, standing up. “ It isn’t you she 
has fixed her fond affections on ; and it isn’t 
you to whom she vows her virginal devotion. 
Come, hostess, quit these ruins of a feast, and 
aid me deck the bridal chamber out. Strew 
roses on the threshold plenteously — roses for 
love ; but scatter poppies too, for poppies 
bring a sweet forgetfulness.” 

Holding his bare sword upright, he moved 
solemnly towards the inn door, chanting in 
monotone like a priest the words : — 

“ He who would love must first forget, 

And he who loves remembers not ; 

Love and forgetfulness are set 
Together in love’s garden plot ; 

For who would love must first forget, 

And he who loves remembers not.” 

The other three men followed him in file, as in 
a procession, and ranged up on either side the 
door. 

Then came Christopher, supported between 


54 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


the two women. One arm was round Mother 
Hacket’s neck ; the other clasped Cicely’s 
waist. Both held him firmly entwined, and 
cheered him on with endearments. For he 
rolled in his walk again, his eyelids were half 
shut, and his head fell heavily forward. 

As they squeezed through the doorway 
together, his beery voice was again heard 
singing : “ Where is the life that late I led ? ” 
Then John Naps slammed the door and 
clouted Pimpernell’s head for trying to look 
through the keyhole. 

“ They’re a’ right,” said Stephen Sly. 


Ill 


A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE 

TT AVRE, sir ? Return ? ” said the man at 
-®“^the Waterloo ticket-office. 

“ No ; single, please,” Mr. Jenkins answered, 
and like a shudder the thought went 
through him that he would not want to 
return. 

“ First class on boat ? ” the man asked. 

“ No, thank you,” said Mr. Jenkins, and 
again he shivered at the thought that first or 
second class would make no difference to him. 

He was soon gliding through the fields and 
heaths of Surrey. The may was in full bloom ; 
the pleasant gardens of suburb and village 
stood bright with lilac, laburnum, and chest- 
nut. It was beautiful Whitsuntide weather, 
and all the fragrant country gleamed with sun- 
shine, the more brilliant because a merry 
south-west breeze chased little white clouds 
across the blue, and bellied the clothes hanging 
upon the washing-lines, like the sails of ships 

Mr. Jenkins stared upon the passing scene 


56 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


as a plague-stricken man stares upon a city in 
festival. His throat was dry, a strange taste 
was in his mouth, and his eyes were blinded 
by the blank shadow of something approaching. 
He had determined to make an end, for he 
could endure the misery of his existence no 
longer. He was escaping — escaping from the 
hideousness of a position which covered him 
every day with contempt. But in front lay 
that horrible gulf which could not be avoided, 
and it lay close before him now. Every turn 
of the rushing wheels bore him nearer to it, 
and the telegraph posts as they whizzed past 
the window ticked off the yards upon the road. 
Each wood that was left behind, each butter- 
cup meadow full of cows, each village street 
with its children — they passed, and he would 
never see them again. 

But he was escaping. He could no longer 
endure the misery of his position, and to that 
thought he constantly returned as something 
solid to hold by. It was that hateful school 
which had driven him to this, and as he thought 
of the school he remembered the very smell of 
the form-rooms and of the hall where they had 
meals. He had failed in everything he did. 


A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE 57 


There was a time when he almost enjoyed 
teaching and had really tried to make himself 
liked by the boys. Year after year he had 
tried, and he recalled the days when he used 
to ask them to come for walks with him on 
half-holidays, and they had come. But that 
was long ago ; the generations of school are 
brief, and the boys who had known him when 
he still felt some kind of hope and pleasure in 
his work had gone out into the great world 
and left him to repeat the stale and weary 
lessons to others, who despised him. 

The train passed by a cavalry camp where 
the men were leading their horses down to 
water. They had only their trousers and gray 
shirts on, and they laughed among themselves 
with mere health and good spirits. How 
passionately Mr. Jenkins envied them as they 
stood there and laughed ! Surely that would 
have been the life worth living ! Their day’s 
work was over, and it was almost time to 
picket the horses till morning. How soon, 
how naturally, the morning would come to 
them ! But between now and morning lay the 
night, and for him the terrible gulf was there. 

He knew the boys despised him. He could 


58 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


not understand why, but a tradition had 
grown up that he was a sort of fool. With him 
they said and did things they would not have 
dreamed of with the other masters. From 
week to week they kept him in the expectation 
of some fresh humiliation, and almost every 
day a new insult took him by surprise. He 
had long known that they called him the 
Whistling Oyster ; though, again, he could 
not imagine why. But custom had made him 
indifferent to it, until, in the previous term, 
he had found a placard on his pillow inscribed 
with the words, “ Please Remember the 
Grotto ! ” And when he got into bed there 
was a thick layer of oyster shells between the 
sheets. Next morning at history lesson he 
was explaining for the twentieth wretched 
time what ostracism meant in Athens, when 
the captain of football innocently inquired 
whether the Athenians kept oyster-beds on 
purpose. Instantly Mr. Jenkins perceived 
that the whole form was convulsed with 
laughter, and from that day he noticed that 
the captain of football never took off his cap 
to him if other boys were in sight. 

There could be no doubt the boys despised 


A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE 59 


him. He thought he would not have minded 
being hated, but he knew he was a common 
butt, and he could not imagine why. He 
wondered now what the boys would say when 
they heard the news. The school would meet 
again ; he would not be there. It would strike 
them hard. They would all be talking about 
it soon — quite soon ! All of them would be 
startled ; some might be a little sorry ; and 
for that alone the thing was worth doing. 

Then there was that creature Simpson ! He 
would hear of it, perhaps the first, from the 
headmaster, and he would learn that the man 
he treated as a worm was at least not a 
coward ! It was all very well for Simpson to 
swagger because he was second master, and 
taught the highest form in Classics, and was 
known to have taken honours at Cambridge. 
No amount of learning would have given him 
the right to despise Mr. Jenkins or to bring 
him into contempt with the boys. They cared 
nothing about his reputed learning. But the 
thing that suddenly presented Simpson most 
bitterly to Mr. Jenkins’s mind was a great 
country house with long carriage drives and a 
spreading park through which the train was 


60 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


passing. Simpson was always telling the boys 
about the country houses in which he spent 
the holidays, and how he drove in motors and 
played golf and even went out shooting. It 
was well known in the school that Simpson 
had once shot a stag. In fact, he always 
carried in his waistcoat pocket the expanded 
bullet that had been extracted from the dead 
animal’s heart, and he used to pass it round 
among the boys at meal-times. 

Mr. Jenkins knew he did this partly to 
maintain his influence and popularity, but 
chiefly out of contemptuous spite against 
himself. For Mr. Jenkins had never been out 
shooting, had no adventures to relate, and 
when asked where he had spent the holidays 
could only say, “ In the neighbourhood of 
London,” or at best, “ In Surrey.” He was a 
naturally truthful man, and, as a matter of 
fact, he had hitherto always stayed with his 
mother near Clapham Junction, so as to save 
expense. But now his mother was dead, and 
he had no one to provide for. 

The train stopped at Winchester, and the 
platform was crowded with women carrying 
or leading their children, and with girls in gay 


A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE 61 


spring frocks and hats all covered with roses. 
Mr. Jenkins stared at them as they hurried to 
and fro, greeting friends and lovers, helping 
the children with their spades and buckets, 
saying good-bye, and promising to write soon. 
It was no distance to the sea now — the sea, 
the yellow sands, the deep chasm of darkness 
that lay before him ! 

He thought of the time when his mother had 
helped him just like that, and had bought him 
a little spade and bucket to dig on St. Leonards 
beach when they lived for one glorious fort- 
night in a back street within smell of the sea- 
weed. How careful she had been of him 
whenever he was ill, and how she had cried 
and comforted him when first he had a tooth 
out ! And now there was no one to care, 
though he had all his teeth out one after 
another. No one would really care when — 
Why, in a few hours now the thing would all 
be over, and no one would care in the least ! 

But the sight of the women and girls had 
reminded him of Simpson again, and his 
thoughts went back to his own miserable 
position compared with his enemy’s. It was 
believed that women actually liked Simpson, 


62 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


and he often talked about them in a very- 
knowing way. Only the Sunday before, 
Simpson and Mr. Jenkins had been to supper 
with the headmaster, and Simpson had talked 
all the time to the headmaster’s wife about 
the dancing and dresses at a recent party in 
the town. But Mr. Jenkins had not learned 
to dance, and he was never invited out now 
because Simpson had spread the report that 
he was deadly dull and did not care about 
society. So he had sat silent through supper, 
or had spoken only a few words about Hutchin- 
son Junior’s mumps to the headmaster, whose 
mind was very much occupied with that sub- 
ject. Indeed, it was for fear of the infection 
spreading that he had given the school a few 
days’ holiday at Whitsuntide, and that was 
how the opportunity for this journey had 
come to Mr. Jenkins — all through Hutchinson 
Junior’s mumps ! 

Thought followed thought, and he seemed 
to be getting far away from the present, when 
suddenly he felt the brakes jammed on again, 
and the train rushed into a large station and 
stopped. Mr. Jenkins’s heart also stood still. 

“ Any luggage, sir ? ” said the porter, fling- 


A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE 63 


ing the door open. No, he had no luggage. 
Beyond threepence for a possible tip, he had 
left even his money behind. This he called 
burning his ships. Not that he needed any 
aid to his resolution. He was resolved. 

The steamer lay alongside the quay, and the 
little waves of Southampton Water were 
splashing against her iron plates with an 
ominous sound. It was the sea — almost the 
real sea — and he had reached it so quickly ! 
Everything was going as he expected, and his 
plans had been laid with great care. He had 
chosen this method because it was so certain 
and so clean. No one would be shocked by 
any horrible discovery, and there would be no 
trouble about inquest or burial. Besides, he 
had always been so fond of the sea. Even now 
he murmured to himself the lines which had 
haunted him for many days : 

“ I will go back to the great sweet mother, 

Mother and lover of men, the sea.” 

And so he went on till he came to the last line 
of the stanza — “ Set free my soul as thy soul 
is free ” ; and then his heart stopped beating 
again, and he saw nothing but that impene- 
trable shadow of darkness. 


64 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


It was sunset, but the boat was not to start 
for some hours, and he walked up and down 
the quay, watching the dockers bringing cargo 
on board, and the visitors settling down to 
dinner in the lighted hotels. He had been 
lonely for many years, but his loneliness was 
almost unendurable now. He longed to con- 
verse with every one he saw, and perhaps get 
some little word of sympathy for what he 
suffered. But it would be ridiculous to speak ; 
men and women passed him without a look, 
occupied only with their affairs as he was with 
his, and not one of them would have cared 
the cost of a dinner if he had died at their feet. 
Why should they care ? 

Then he thought he had better try to sleep, 
especially as he was growing very hungry. So 
he went on board and lay down on one of the 
berths in the second-class cabin. There were 
still a few hours yet, and this was his last sleep. 
His last sleep ! He thought of the accounts of 
executions he had read — how the condemned 
man always slept well and enjoyed a good 
breakfast before the jailer came to pinion him. 

At intervals he slept, but when any one 
came into the cabin he woke with a dim know- 


A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE 65 


ledge that something horrible was going to 
happen, and that gradual return of the horror 
was so frightful that he found it better to keep 
awake. The passengers talked and sang, the 
crew shouted, the shuffling and stamping 
above his head increased. At last there came 
a hideous sound of grating and wrenching, 
and he knew the anchor was being hauled in. 
He heard the captain signalling the orders 
with his bell. The propeller began to turn and 
roar, the ropes fell into the water with a splash, 
the siren hooted, and, creaking and shivering 
from end to end, the ship set out upon her 
voyage. 

He had determined to wait for mid-channel, 
when every one would be asleep and there 
could be no fear of being stopped or rescued. 
So he had still two or three hours left of life. 
He half sat up in his berth and tried to think 
of the past. He looked back on it all with a 
half-affectionate regret, as though he were 
remembering a friend’s story which had ended 
in disaster, and for himself he felt a yearning 
pity, such as one feels for a harshly used child. 
But to think of the past was almost as bad as 
sleeping, so terrible was the return of present 

O.s, 5 


66 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


reality and that thing which stood only an 
hour or two before him now. He heard the 
ship’s bell strike two half hours. He could 
not tell what time they might mean, but the 
creaking and vibration of the vessel increased, 
and she began to roll slowly from side to side. 
He could judge how much she rolled by the 
curtains, which themselves hung down straight 
from the door-posts and port-holes. He shut 
his eyes, for somehow he did not like to watch 
them. 

But he knew the steamer must be on the 
open sea by now. In another hour the thing 
would have to be done, and he tried to look it 
in the face. He would go to the side when no 
one was looking ; or he could pretend to be 
seasick. Then he would climb the railings and 
jump. There would be a splash, a sudden 
feeling of cold, and that horrible taste of salt- 
water which he had always hated when his 
mother dipped him and he ran naked out of 
the waves screaming. But that would soon be 
over ; he could not swim, so that the struggle 
would not last. And then would begin the slow 
sinking— sinking down into the darkness, with 
water above his head and all around him. It 


A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE 67 


could not be really much more terrible than 
falling asleep, if only the first part were well 
over. By the time he was fast asleep he would 
be dead — that was the only difference. So 
many people went through with it every hour 
of the day and night that it could not be very 
terrible. And when the last thought and feel- 
ing had gone, he would just sink deeper and 
deeper, carried gently about by currents, till 
at last he rested in darkness on the sand and 
above him stood a pure dome of water thicker 
than the mountains are high. Suddenly the 
ship’s bell rang the time again. It seemed to 
be always ringing. 

He resolved that when next it rang he would 
creep silently out of the cabin and do it. 
Nearly all the men around him were snoring 
hard and would not wake till morning. A 
bitter envy came over him as he thought of 
them waking as usual in the morning and hav- 
ing their coffee and perhaps meeting their 
wives on shore. In all that ship he was the 
only one who would never see morning and 
never speak to a human creature again. To 
him no woman except his mother had ever 
given a thought. 


5—2 


68 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


Blind terror seized him. The ship rolled 
with increasing violence ; every plate and 
beam in her construction groaned ; the cur- 
tains swung out almost at right angles to her 
sides ; but he neither heard nor saw. In front 
of him gaped only that unknown abyss of 
nothingness, and around him all the crowds 
of boys who scorned and despised him drove 
him forward into the gulf with taunts and 
laughter. He knew there was one way to 
silence them, but only one. It would be very 
effective. They would instantly be still ; their 
mouths would shut, their hands drop down. 
They would stop laughing all in a moment. 
They would even be a little ashamed, and 
perhaps a little sorry. As he thought of that, 
he felt a queer sensation as though he were 
going to cry. 

There was no escaping. Behind lay the 
long years of intolerable degradation and 
unmanly submission ; in front the black 
chasm yawned to receive him. He must prove 
himself now, or live with the consciousness of 
a deeper dishonour still. In his anguish he 
writhed upon the hard cushions of the berth 
and hid his face in the horsehair bolster. With 


A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE 69 


every second the deathly horror increased. 
His limbs were cold with fear, his whole body 
was faint and powerless, and the swinging of 
the ship tossed him to and fro as the waves 
would toss the dead. The minutes were pass- 
ing, passing. Not more than five or ten could 
now be left. Suddenly he heard Simpson 
crying “ Coward ! Coward ! ” in his ear, and 
at the same moment the ship’s bell sounded 
again. 

He knew it was the signal for death. He sat 
up calmly at once on the edge of the berth and 
put his feet on the cabin floor. He seemed to 
be an indifferent spectator watching himself 
from near at hand, and ready to applaud his 
coolness and resolution. All the men in the 
cabin were sound asleep — all except one who 
was horribly seasick and did not count. Mr. 
Jenkins knew exactly what to do, for he had 
rehearsed the scene so often. Feeling for his 
boots under the berth, he drew them on 
quietly and began lacing them up. He found 
it a very difficult task, for the ship kept rolling 
this way and that, and even by looking down 
he could hardly make out where the hooks 
were. No matter ! It made no difference 


70 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


whether his boots were properly laced or not. 
Hurriedly tying the ends together, he stood 
up and made for the door. 

Instantly he was flung into the next berth, 
right on top of the seasick man, who cursed 
him feebly and groaned. Making a fresh 
start, he was sent staggering over to the other 
side of the cabin and then thrown violently 
back again upon the edge of his own berth. 
There he sat, faint and wretched. 

A horrible sweat broke from him, and the 
deathly weakness in his limbs increased. He 
could not endure to move, but nothing w T as 
accomplished yet, and he was not an inch 
nearer the thing he had to do. Point by 
point his definite plan must be carried out. 
The steps lay clearly before him, and each 
must be taken in turn. He stood up again, 
resolved at all costs to reach the door. The 
ship reeled, the door reeled, the curtains 
swung in his face, and he fell back prostrate 
upon the cushions where those hours of 
tortured waiting had been spent. 

Of all the seasick men and women on that 
ship, none was so deadly ill as Mr. Jenkins, 
who had come on board to die. The pain of 


A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE 71 


hunger increased his suffering. He could 
hardly move a hand, so wretched was his 
weakness. He was so violently ill that 
even the second-class steward took pity on 
him. 

The morning sun blazed over Havre when 
at last the steamer ceased to roll and glided 
into the blessed calm of the river’s mouth. 
Giving the steward his only threepence, Mr. 
Jenkins went ashore with the other passengers 
and sat down on a heap of ropes. Hotel 
porters entreated his patronage, custom-house 
officers asked him if he had anything to 
declare, passers-by stared at him uncomfort- 
ably. But what was to be done now ? It 
would be ridiculous to throw himself into the 
dirty harbour and be pulled out amid the 
excitement of the crowd, who would expect 
him to reward his rescuer. He could not go 
back and try to do it again at sea, for they 
would not let him on board without a ticket. 
He felt miserably ill ; perhaps he would die 
“ naturally ” if he only stayed where he was. 
But he could not stay, for the police were 
beginning to look at him suspiciously and to 
exchange remarks in whispers. At last one 


72 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


of them began to approach, and Mr. Jenkins 
got up and walked feebly away. 

He did not know where to go or what to do. 
The sun was hot and he felt mad with thirst. 
He was hungry, too, and as he passed the 
cafes along the harbour-side he longed to 
seize the great bowls of coffee, flasks of wine, 
rolls, little cakes — anything to stop his 
wretched sense of exhaustion and faintness. 
But he had not a penny to give, and he had 
left even his watch afc the school because 
there was no reason why it should be sunk in 
the sea. Besides, it was not for him to be 
eating and drinking while he still had that 
thing to do. He must not forget that. 
Looking round, he saw a hill and a bit of cliff 
standing above the town. They were not 
very high or steep, but perhaps up there he 
could find a place for his purpose. 

He dragged himself along. The sun grew 
hotter and beat upon his back. His thirst 
became so terrible that he could not even 
think of hunger or of anything but thirst. If 
he could only drink something he thought he 
could go on, but he felt he must lie down 
somewhere first. He reached the foot of the 


A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE 73 


hill and knew that he ought to climb it. As 
soon as he had climbed to the top, he knew 
he would have to do something great — some- 
thing really important. He could not exactly 
remember what. He was very sorry, he must 
lie down first. Unless he got something to 
drink he would die, but he must really lie 
down somewhere first. So he lay down in the 
middle of the street. 

" Ah, what horror ! ” cried the crowd, 
rushing in upon him from every side. “ It 
is a sudden death ! It is a sunstroke — an 
apoplectic seizure — an enfeeblement of the 
heart — a collapse of the cerebral organs ! 
Take care ! He is a criminal — an escaped 
forger — an assassin ! He is the man the 
police are looking for ! He is walking toward 
the fortifications ! He is a spy ! Do not 
touch him ! Look out for a bomb ! He has 
an air entirely anarchistic ! He is a foreigner ! 
What a hat ! Look at his boots ! They are 
prison boots ! Look at his trousers ! He is 
an Englishman ! ” 

The police arrived, and legal discussion 
began. They took notes, they demanded 
evidence, they wrote out the names and 


74 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


addresses of the principal witnesses. They 
examined the body ; they searched the 
pockets and found nothing, they tried to 
decipher the name on the pocket-handker- 
chief, they pulled open the eyes to see their 
colour, they agreed that the teeth would have 
to be noted and impressions of the finger-tips 
taken. They explained to the crowd how this 
was done. Amid growing excitement they 
unfastened the coat and shirt. Each felt 
the heart in turn, and called for water in 
unison. A bucket was brought. It was 
poured over Mr. Jenkins’s head, and after a 
few deep breaths he opened his eyes with- 
out police assistance. As he had taught 
French for so many years, he understood a 
word here and there of the shouting around 
him. 

“ To the English Consulate ! ” they cried, 
with threatening gesticulations. “ He is an 
assassin ! He escapes ! He spies on our 
fortresses ! He has killed ten women ! He 
is Jack the Ripper ! Ah, the criminal English ! 
To the Consulate ! To the Consulate ! ” 

A flat cart, drawn by a woman and a large 
dog, appeared, and Mr. Jenkins was carefully 


A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE 75 


laid inside, his boots being removed to prevent 
his running away. Then, with two policemen 
on either hand, he was drawn back into the 
town, crowds of working-people streaming in 
from every side. It was a procession, a 
cortege , a public affair ! Seldom had Havre 
enjoyed an incident so piquant, so intriguing, 
so suggestive of excitement to the spirit of 
human curiosity. 

That night Mr. Jenkins slept like the dead, 
between clean white sheets in a cool and airy 
room, looking out upon a French garden full 
of the smell of lilac. The consul had received 
him into his house, which he said was only his 
official duty. At dinner the consul’s wife had 
been present, and a son just going up to 
Oxford, and a daughter with a laughing 
mouth and sympathetic eyes. Flowers were 
on the table, the room shone with silvery 
lights, and the red wine went round. Mr. 
Jenkins was transfigured. The consul’s son 
declared he was quite a decent sort ; the 
daughter said he was a dear. 

“ You can send me back the fare when you 
get home — when you get home,” the consul 
had said ; “ and whenever you want another 


76 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


change, I hope you’ll make the trip again. 
It’s so easy when once you’ve done it.” 

Two days later, when Mr. Jenkins came 
into hall for breakfast, Mr. Simpson eyed him 
curiously and said to the boys nearest the head 
of the table : “ Mr. Jenkins looks quite 
polished up, doesn’t he ? Looks like a certain 
shellfish turned inside out to show the mother- 
of-pearl ! 

“ I say, Jenkins,” he went on, while the 
boys pretended to stifle their laughter, 
“ you’re quite smart this morning. What 
have they been doing to you at Clapham 
Junction this week ? ” 

“ Oh, I wasn’t in Clapham. I just took a 
run over to France,” Mr. Jenkins answered, 
with an easy air, looking boldly round. 

“You ran over to France ! ” cried Mr. 
Simpson, in scornful amazement. 

“ Yes,” said Mr. Jenkins. “ I’ve been 
staying with my friends at the British Con- 
sulate in Havre — very charming people.” 

There was no mistaking the impression 
produced by the words, and Mr. Simpson 
could only mutter something about hoping 
he had not been very ill on the passage. 


A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE 77 


“ Well, it certainly was a bit rough for 
landlubbers,” said Mr. Jenkins, serenely ; 
“ but I’ve always loved the sea, and the 
rougher it is, the more alive I am.” 

“ Oh, I like a little yachtin’ myself,” said 
Mr. Simpson, trying to recover his position ; 
“ when there’s no shootin’, I like a little 
yachtin’.” 

“ All right,” said Mr. Jenkins, genially ; 
“ next time you’re tired of lion-huntin’, come 
and do a little yachtin’ with me on the 
steamer to Havre. I’ll introduce you at the 
Consulate — charming people ! ” 

From that day the moral and intellectual 
influence of Mr. Jenkins rapidly increased. 
For it became known that he was really very 
highly connected, but had run away to sea as 
a boy and had lived a life of maritime adven- 
ture. 

No doubt, that was why he had been called 
the Whistling Oyster. 


IV 


PONGo’s ILLUSION 

A mong the chimpanzees inhabiting the 
forests which border a West African river 
he was conspicuous for intelligence and adven- 
ture. He left his mother early, he married 
early, he fitted up a nice, cool cavern for his 
family and invented a method of cracking 
cocoanuts by hurling them down from the 
summit of a precipice upon the rocks beneath. 
No chimpanzee on the river was so agile in 
swinging from tree to tree, or in swarming up 
the slender trunks for palm-oil fruit and 
kernels. Before daylight his cheery chatter- 
ing began, and all day long he searched for 
food or lay basking in the jolly sunshine. Of 
an evening he came chattering back, always 
bringing plenty in his hands or mouth to 
support his wife and children, and all night 
he slept comfortably among them in the cave. 
He was considerably happier than a king. 

But, like a king, he was always desiring to 
increase his happiness. Unsatisfied with his 


PONGO’S ILLUSION 


79 


enviable lot, he roamed far and wide through 
the forest, continually searching for unknown 
joys, and one day he even attempted to cross 
the river itself on a fallen tree-trunk, the roots 
of which had rotted away in the swamp. 
Leaping upon it, he gave the trunk a vigorous 
push off with his feet, and the strong, but 
placid, current whirled it out to the centre of 
the stream. There the full force of the water 
caught it and swept it onwards, down and 
down the river. It was carried swiftly along 
a winding course between the two black lines 
of forest, and once it was dashed down a 
cataract, where he had to cling to the bark 
with hands and feet while the foam surged 
over his warm and hairy back. But the trunk 
came no nearer to one side or the other. It 
was always swept forward in the middle of the 
current. 

All that evening and through the dark 
night, sometimes turning round or rolling 
right over, it bore him along, cold and hungry, 
but he never let go his grip or fell off into the 
water. And in the morning he saw that the 
river had broadened out ; he was further than 
ever from the" banks ; and right in front lay 


80 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


an enormous stretch of water, where waves 
rose suddenly to a great height as they 
approached the shore, and then fell, crashing 
and roaring, in surf upon a long white beach. 
He stared at them in terror as the current 
drove him into their very mouth with increas- 
ing speed. But just as the white splashes of 
foam reached his face, an eddy carried the 
trunk aside and flung it against a narrow spit 
of sand which extended halfway across the 
river’s course like a bar. Crawling carefully 
along the tree, he stepped upon the solid 
surface and rolled himself dry in the sand, 
already hot with sunshine. 

When he had stopped shivering and had 
shaken off the sand, he looked about for 
something to eat. There was no forest here ; 
only the long strip of empty beach, upon 
which the surf fell heavily with regular crash 
and drag. But at the broad end of the bar 
he saw a cluster of palm-trees, which promised 
something. So he lurched towards them 
wearily on all fours, being exhausted with 
hunger and fatigue. As he approached, he 
saw other creatures moving about among the 
palms ; and he stopped in fear and amaze- 


PONGO’S ILLUSION 


81 


ment to watch them. They were something 
like chimpanzees, but much larger and more 
erect. Their arms were shorter, their legs 
longer, and what astonished and frightened 
him most, next to their size, was their varie- 
gated colour. For some were dark black, 
except for patches of blue, and two had pale 
yellowish faces and arms, but the rest of 
them all white ; and these white creatures 
had queer heads, expanding into wide, flat 
circles at the top. 

His first thought was to run away and hide. 
But behind him lay nothing except sand, the 
river, and the roaring surf. In front there 
was a chance of something to eat, and, besides, 
he was adventurous by nature. For a long 
time he watched them from a distance — the 
figures in white standing in the shade and 
shouting, the dark black figures moving rest- 
lessly to and fro, carrying great burdens or 
arranging them in rows. Then he drew 
gradually nearer, hunger compelling him ; 
for certainly, he thought, such animals must 
have something to eat. At last he came so 
close that he could see their faces plainly. 
The two white figures were now seated beside 


82 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


a plank of wood, evidently eating. The black 
were lying about in the shade, eating too. 
The sight of their satisfaction induced him to 
draw nearer still. At last, driven by the 
recklessness of hunger, he reared himself up 
and, advancing to the table, made a clutch 
at a large bunch of bananas and held it tight. 

“ Good God ! It’s a Pongo ! ” cried the 
two startled traders, springing up. “ Hop it, 
you infernal brute ! ” 

Much profane language followed, but the 
chimpanzee, not understanding the words, 
only sprang a few yards off and began 
stripping the banana skins, as he knew how, 
uttering the excited chatter usual at the 
certainty of food. 

“ Ever see blinking swank like that ? ” 
cried the older trader. “ Damned if I don’t 
catch the beggar and scoop his inside out ! ” 

There was no difficulty in catching him. 
Ravenously devouring the banana which he 
held in both hands, he kept looking from side 
to side, this way and that, lest some enemy 
should come and grab it, but of the creature 
before him he took little notice. Perhaps he 
thought no one enjoying such plenty could 


PONGO’S ILLUSION 


83 


envy his share ; perhaps he was stupefied 
by hunger and the splendour of food. He 
allowed the trader to come close up to him 
with a long West Coast “ machet,” or cutlass, 
and did not stop eating when the man cried, 
“ Say your prayers quick, you limb of 
Satan ! ” 

Raising the cutlass, the trader was on the 
point of sweeping off his head. But the other 
one called out lazily from the table, “ Say, 
Smithson ! Why not catch the devil alive 
and keep him for society ? ” 

“ Any devil would make a proper chum for 
you,” Smithson answered, letting the machet 
fall ; “ just get the other side of him.” 

Looking this way and that, the chimpanzee 
went on eating ravenously. Only when they 
came close and one of them stretched out a 
hand towards the banana bunch, he snarled 
fiercely, showing his great teeth, and leapt 
forward upon his hind legs. 

“ Stow it, Pongo ! ” cried Smithson, “ or 
I’ll roast you alive for the natives’ chop. 
Fetch a rope, Taylor.” 

The black figures with blue patches about 
their waists gathered round in the ring, 

6—2 


84 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


grinning and chattering, to watch the sport. 
A rope was brought, and Smithson threw a 
big noose round the chimpanzee’s body. He 
jerked at it till it lay loose under the creature’s 
arms, and then gradually drew it tight. 

“ Now I’ve got you, you old devil ! ” he 
said, and he fastened the other end of the rope 
round the stem of a big palm tree. The natives 
laughed and shouted with pleasure, standing 
round in a circle at a safe distance. Alarmed 
at the sounds, which were not exactly the 
same cries as he was accustomed to, Pongo 
attempted to leap away, but the rope caught 
him tight round the chest, and he was flung 
violently on his back. The shouting and 
laughter increased, and the two traders stood 
on either side, cracking long whips to make 
him leap the more. Weakened by the night 
journey, and soon exhausted by his struggles, 
he climbed the stem of the palm as far as the 
rope allowed, and clung on there. The 
laughter and shouting were redoubled. 

“ You’ll soon come down, my beauty ! ” 
said Smithson, and flung a stone which hit 
him in the middle of the back. All the 
natives began throwing stones, and certainly 


PONGO’S ILLUSION 


85 


would have killed him if the other trader had 
not driven them back to work with loud 
reports of a whip. Then he laid the uneaten 
bananas at the foot of the tree and left the 
creature feebly clinging there. 

As the trader had foretold, he soon came 
down, and now that he was alone, he tried 
again to escape, leaping in every direction, 
but always brought up sharply by the rope. 
At last he gave up trying and sat quiet, 
watching those big black animals still hurry- 
ing to and fro in the sun and carrying casks 
or other heavy burdens, while the two white 
figures walked up and down, shouting at them 
and prodding them with long staves. 

He fell asleep, and when he awoke it was 
evening. The traders were again seated 
beside the table, and behind each stood one 
of those black creatures — a female — who, from 
time to time, went away and returned, 
bringing them food, just as Pongo used to 
bring it for his family in the forest. Further 
along the beach he saw black figures squatting 
round a fire, which shot up long tongues of 
crimson and yellow flame. They were jabber- 
ing incessantly, and every now and then they 


86 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


tore fragments off a cow’s head, which was 
stewing on the fire in a great iron cauldron, 
and ate them. Then they all plunged scoops 
of cocoanut shell into the broth and drank it, 
for it was a kind of feast, or saint’s day, 
because a steamer was expected to arrive. 
To-morrow they would need all their strength 
to load the barrels of palm-oil and bring back 
the gin, rum, and other goods in which their 
labour was paid. So they had received a 
cow’s head to keep their spirits up. 

And Pongo, being conspicuous among 
chimpanzees for intelligence, watched both 
parties with admiration and astonishment, 
soon realising that he had fallen among beings 
superior to his kind. They were like his 
people — all the more like now that the white 
figures had laid aside their hats and shown 
their heads covered with fur — and yet how 
unlike ! They never used their arms in 
walking. Their chattering was different. 
Their size overwhelmed him. The amount 
they ate filled him with awe. The two 
females kept bringing the white figures one 
kind of food after another, more varied than 
a cow’s head and in greater quantity. As 


PONGO’S ILLUSION 


87 


Pongo sat watching them, a feeling of envy 
mingled with reverence grew in his mind. 
This, no doubt, was the life he had dimly 
sought to discover by all those enterprises 
and adventures in the forest. Here was the 
happiness which he could thoroughly enjoy. 
Obscurely he felt an attraction to these 
beings. With them he longed to associate — 
to become like one of themselves and share 
their grandeur. Desirous, not only of their 
abundant food, but of their companionship, 
he began again to leap towards the table, 
tugging vainly at his rope. 

“ Best shoot the beggar,” said Smithson, 
lighting a long, thin cigar. “ He’ll be a filthy 
nuisance.” 

“ You leave him to me,” said Taylor. “ I’ve 
got an idea about Pongo. There’s money in 
that ape. I’m going to make a man of him.” 

“ Are you a bloody organ-grinder ? ” mut- 
tered Smithson. 

But Taylor had already gone towards 
Pongo, with a hippo sjambok in his hand. As 
he approached, he raised it above his head, 
ready to strike. But Pongo, full of friendli- 
ness and hope, flung himself down upon his 


88 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


back before him, and began beating his hairy 
chest with his hands as a sign of submission 
and goodwill. When the trader stood for a 
moment hesitating where to strike, he rolled 
over and rubbed his face against the loose, 
white covering which flapped round the 
trader’s legs. 

“ You just bite, you devil ! ” cried Taylor, 
“ And I’ll knock the stuffing out of you ! ” 

But Pongo had no intention of biting. His 
savage heart was filled with respectful fear 
and hesitating pleasure — such a mixture of 
exhilaration and apprehension as ambitious 
people feel when they begin to climb in the 
social world. 

“ The brute’s half tamed already. Look at 
him ! ” Taylor shouted to his companion. 
“ Chuck us a bit of something.” 

“ Oh, blast you and your cursed ape,” 
Smithson answered, sleepily, from the table ; 
“ why don’t you brain him and have done 
with it ? ” 

But still, he flung a lump of warmish fat, 
which fell in the sand close to Taylor’s feet. 

Pongo had never smelt or tasted anything 
so peculiar. Taking it in both hands, he 


PONGO’S ILLUSION 


89 


slowly devoured it, looking to right and left, 
and spitting out the sand. If the gods gave 
us of their food, our grateful enjoyment might 
be as tentative and uncertain as his. 

“ There’s money in that ugly brute ! I tell 
you there’s money in it ! ” said Taylor, return- 
ing to the table, and pouring out a liqueur 
brandy. 

“ There’s more in niggers and palm-oil,” 
said the other, and shouting to one of the 
females, he went into his corrugated iron hut. 
Taylor vanished into another. The natives 
crept into little shelters of branches and dry 
leaves, stockaded like a kraal, and the whole 
“ factory ” lay silent under the moon. Only 
the crash and drag of the surf could be heard, 
and Pongo slept happily, just like the human 
beings, except that he lay curled up, with his 
face between his legs. 

Before dawn he was awakened by a sudden 
boom from the sea. The expected steamer 
had fired a gun to show she had cast anchor. 
At once all the natives began chattering and 
running about. The white figures came out, 
shouting at them and prodding them with long 
sticks as before. A boat full of barrels was 


90 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


pushed out through the surf, which tossed it 
high up on end, and let it fall with a crash into 
the hollow of the wave beyond. Pongo could 
hear the loud hiss the natives made to keep 
the paddles in time as they plunged them into 
the water, standing up, face to the bow. The 
sight of the boat as it heaved and splashed its 
way out into the flat sea beyond filled him 
with amazement. It became smaller and 
smaller. Then after a long while he saw it 
again, growing bigger and bigger. It heaved 
and sank again upon the surf, rushed forward 
on the crest of an enormous wave, and crashed 
down upon the sand. Instantly all the natives 
sprang into the water, which surged and 
foamed round their black bodies, and they 
dragged it high up the beach. Out of it they 
took great barrels, and rolled them up to the 
factory. So the work went on all day, the 
boat taking out barrels and bringing barrels 
back. And all day the white figures beat and 
prodded the natives on. So Pongo sat 
bewildered by the marvel of human industry, 
and his reverential longing to share in human 
life increased. 

But in the stress and excitement of trade, 


PONGO’S ILLUSION 


91 


his existence was forgotten. In vain he cried 
aloud, and bobbed up and down, and to and 
fro, at the end of the rope. He would have 
come near starvation again, if one of the dark 
females had not brought him a basin of mealy- 
meal. She was much afraid of him, but when 
he lay on his back again, patting his chest, and 
tried to rub his face against her legs, she put 
it within reach and ran away. 

Late in the evening, the last row of barrels 
was taken off. The steamer made three 
hooting sounds, and sailed away. The boat 
plunged through the surf for the last time, and 
great noise and turmoil arose in the native 
kraal. A loud drum began to beat. The 
black figures leapt about in circles, wriggling 
their backs, and moving their legs and arms 
up and down in jerks, while they uttered shrill 
cries and other peculiar noises, which filled 
Pongo with a terrifying and painful pleasure. 
For, like all the higher animals, he was sus- 
ceptible to music, and was impelled to join in 
the sounds with long, wailing outcries. He 
also began leaping about, wriggling his back, 
and throwing up his arms, just as he saw the 
other creatures doing. The drumming became 


92 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


quicker, the dance more excited. The black 
figures reeled unsteadily, and many fell down 
flat. Two rushed from the circle and struck 
at each other with machets, uttering shrieks. 
The white figures staggered towards them, 
cursing, and slashing about with long whips. 
But just as they came up, the two black 
creatures fell heavily close in front of Pongo, 
and he could see liquid running from them, 
and soaking in dark patches into the sand. 
The white figures kicked their heads and 
bodies, but they hardly moved. 

“ Leave the blighters alone,” said Smithson. 
“ They’ll either come to or die.” 

“ All jolly well ! ” Taylor answered, “ but 
these drunks are too expensive.” 

They staggered off to the dancing circle, 
and with yells and lashing of whips drove the 
natives into the stockade and barred the 
entrance with logs. The sight of all these 
varied activities increased Pongo’s admiration, 
and so far as he was capable of worship, he 
felt it. 

Day followed day, and Pongo enjoyed asso- 
ciation with higher beings more and more, as 
he became more worthy of it. Qwanga, the 


PONGO’S ILLUSION 


93 


dark female who had saved him from starva- 
tion, brought him food regularly, and swept 
his circle of sand around the tree, just as a 
housemaid dusts and empties the slops for a 
duke. At last she ventured to lead him about 
at the end of the rope, and in the daytime she 
tied him up to the doorpost of one of the 
trader’s huts, where she found it easier to 
feed him. So the food came nice and fresh 
straight from her kitchen. After a week or 
two, Taylor brought an empty old barrel, and 
fixed it on its side as a kennel, substituting a 
fine iron chain for the rope, so that Pongo 
might not bite himself loose and wander 
helplessly away into the impenetrable forest. 
Over the top of the kennel he painted the 
words, “ Windsor Castle : The Reward of 
Honest Toil,” and there in the evenings he 
began to teach Pongo the lessons of civilisa- 
tion, instilling knowledge with the sjambok 
until each advance towards humanity was 
completely mastered. He easily taught him 
to grovel on all fours when he approached, 
and to rub his nose against his boots as though 
licking them. That was easy and natural. 
To stand up at the command, “ ’Shun ! ” and 


94 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


raise one hand to his head was more difficult, 
but a few weeks made Pongo almost as smart 
at it as an Australian private. He readily 
learnt to drink, and at the command “ Curse !” 
would pour out a fine string of growls and 
shrieks. The hardest trick to teach him was, 
at the command “ Rent ! ” to make him 
hand over part of the food he had just 
received. But under sharp blows from the 
sjambok, he was brought to learn even that. 

“ I told you I’d make a man of him,” said 
Taylor to the other trader when these lessons 
were completely acquired. Pongo was evi- 
dently proud of these accomplishments, and 
behaved as one gradually becoming initiated 
into the usages of society. 

But, unhappily, he suffered one serious 
relapse into the barbarism from which he 
appeared to be emerging. For the third time 
the monthly steamer had come and gone, and 
after the last boat had put to shore, the “ fac- 
tory ” gave itself up to the full enjoyment of 
its accustomed relaxation. The natives drank 
and danced beside the kraal ; the traders 
drank and smoked at the table, and one of 
them read aloud occasional extracts from a 


PONGO’S ILLUSION 


95 


book such as Antwerp supplied specially for 
the traders along the Coast. 

Suddenly Smithson got up and said, “ I’m 
sick of this. What’s the good of reading 
things ? Give me the solid article. I want 
flesh and blood, and I’m going to have it. I 
want sport — thick, bleeding sport ! ” 

“ Want away ! ” said Taylor ; “ there’s no 
sport here. But there’s drink. So here’s 
luck ! ” 

“ No sport ? You wait a minute ! ” Smith- 
son retorted ; “ I’m going to dress down a 
woman, just to see how it feels.” 

He staggered to his corrugated iron hut 
with the unsteady gait which characterised 
a day of commercial prosperity. At the 
entrance he passed the kennel of Pongo, who 
did obeisance, bowing down with face to the 
sand, as he had been taught, and was rewarded 
by a passing kick. 

Without going into the house, Smithson 
shouted for Qwanga. “ You lib to come ? ” 
he cried. “ Plenty well come quick one 
time ! ” 

Qwanga came out, wearing a little blue 
apron with white spots, as usual, and carrying 


96 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


a cup of hot coffee, which she supposed the 
master wanted. Smithson struck the cup out 
of her hand, dashing the scalding stuff upon 
her bare skin. Then he seized her, and with 
thin bits of rope began lashing her wrists and 
ankles to the doorposts of the narrow entrance, 
until she was extended like a St. Andrew’s 
cross. 

Her cries of entreaty roused the Kraal, and 
the natives came rolling and staggering up 
till they stood around in a wide half-circle, 
keeping their distance out of respect for 
superior intelligence. First drawing the lash 
of a heavy leathern whip through his fingers, 
Smithson brought it down diagonally across 
the woman’s back. She shrieked. Her body 
writhed with sudden anguish. But she hung 
helplessly there, and at the sight all the 
semi-circle of natives burst into laughter, 
delighted that another suffered and not them- 
selves. Drawing the lash through his left hand 
again, Smithson laughed also, and cried Dat 
lib for plenty fine — fine too much ! ” 

Steadying himself to take aim, he brought 
the whip down again almost along the same 
line of skin, and this time the back of the 


PONGO S ILLUSION 


97 


little blue apron was cut nearly in half. Again 
the woman shrieked, and the natives rocked 
with laughter. But a yell from Smithson 
silenced them. Almost too swift to be seen, 
Pongo sprang upon him, and, clinging round 
his body, fastened his great teeth through the 
white netted “ singlet ” into his right arm near 
the shoulder. Blood poured from it, and 
dripped from the handle of the whip. 

“ Take the cursed brute off,” shouted Smith- 
son, yelling with pain and striking round at 
Pongo’s face with his left. Two or three of 
the natives sprang forward and, seizing the 
ape’s limbs, dragged him violently away, tear- 
ing the flesh into which the teeth were driven. 
They got their hands round his throat and 
flung him to the ground, holding him tight 
down on his back, while Smithson kicked him 
with his great boots till he was senseless. 

“ Taylor said he’d make a man of you, did 
he ? ” he shouted, so as to be heard by Taylor, 
who was still slouching over the table in a half- 
stupefied condition. “ I’ll show you what it 
means to be made a man of ! ” 

He ordered the natives to lift the ape and 
hold it up against the woman’s back. Then 


98 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


he tied its hands round her neck and its feet 
round her waist, so that it seemed to be 
riding pickaback, as a native woman carries 
her child. When Qwanga threw her head 
back, moaning with pain and terror, it 
knocked against the ape’s senseless head, 
which hung limply forward over her shoulder, 
like a baby’s whose neck is not strong enough 
to balance the weight. The semicircle of 
natives laughed again, more heartily than ever. 

“ Make a man of you, would he ? You 
spawn of hell ! ” Smithson shouted again ; 
“ I’ll show you what it means to be a man ! ” 

Pain and rage had sobered him. Pausing 
a moment to measure distance and direction 
accurately with his eye, he violently brought 
down the lash so that it fell on Pongo’s back 
and curled round the woman’s body at the 
same stroke. Again and again he repeated 
the blow, and then, with growing frenzy, 
struck the hissing lash upon black flesh and 
hairy skin indifferently with savage joy. 
The woman’s shrieks subsided into deep 
moans of agony. Her head fell forward like 
the ape’s. Her blood and his mingled and 
dripped together upon the sand between her 


PONGO’S ILLUSION 


99 


extended feet. The brilliant moon illumi- 
nated the scene. Nothing was heard but the 
swish and blow of the lash, the woman’s 
groans, and the roaring of the surf upon the 
beach. Even the natives ceased to laugh. 

“ Stow this rotting ! ” cried Taylor’s voice. 
He had roused himself from happy torpor, 
and was cutting his way through the black 
semicircle with blows of the sjambok. 

“ Stow it, I tell you, Smithson ! ” he said, 
catching hold of the other trader’s wrist as 
his bleeding arm was raised for the next blow. 
“ Kill your woman if you like, but I’m 
damned if you shall kill my Pongo ! ” 

“ Your Pongo has gone to hell already, and 
you can catch him there ! ” cried Smithson, 
struggling with him and striking at his face. 

“ Stow it,” cried Taylor again, in a lower 
tone. “ If one of us gets done in, the natives 
’ll chop the other.” 

Smithson desisted, being himself exhausted 
with pain. Taylor cut the chimpanzee loose, 
and flung him, limp and unconscious, into the 
barrel. Then he untied the groaning woman, 
and together they dragged her into Smithson’s 
hut and laid her on the matted floor. 


100 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


“ Your bloody book was right,” said 
Smithson, kneeling beside her and passing 
his hand over her smooth and shiny breasts. 
“ Now you can go and bury the filthy ape that 
has gone to hell ! ” 

But Pongo did not go to the land where 
superior beings go. Two or three months 
later, I happened to be passing down the 
coast in the monthly steamer, and put to shore 
at the “ factory ” with the ship’s doctor. 

Hissing to their paddles, the natives brought 
us through the enormous surf with the usual 
boat-load of spirits and other goods so 
skilfully that only one wave drenched us. 
Smithson and Taylor received us hospitably 
to lunch at the long plank table among the 
cluster of palms. As a curiosity, Taylor 
showed us a chimpanzee he was training for a 
Zoo in England. He gave a peculiar call, 
and the creature came out of a barrel and 
staggered towards us uncertainly upon its 
hind legs. It dragged a length of chain after 
it, but the chain was loose at the other end. 

“ Say good morning,” said Taylor, and 
the creature bowed to the ground at our feet, 
and then held out a front paw. 


PONGO’S ILLUSION 


101 


“ Now wash for lunch/’ said Taylor, and 
the creature crept unwillingly to a basin and 
rubbed a little water on its face. 

“ Now brush your hair,” said Taylor, and 
it took an old blacking brush and scrubbed its 
hairy sides. 

We all sat down to lunch, I being next the 
chimpanzee, which sat up quite well upon a 
wooden chair and laid its paws upon the 
table. But I noticed both the traders kept a 
heavy whip beside them and the end of the 
chain was fastened round a table leg. The 
chimpanzee had its share of all the dishes, and 
ate off a plate, but held the food in both paws 
and kept looking suspiciously to right and 
left. 

“ Why do people talk of grinning apes ? ” 
I said. “ This Pongo looks about as likely 
to grin as a well-paid mute.” 

“ They’re melancholy beggars, are apes,” 
Taylor answered. “ But I’ll show you how 
to cheer him up.” 

He produced a black bottle from under the 
table, and at sight of it the ape began bound- 
ing up and down on its chair and uttering 
eager little cries. It was given a tot in a 


102 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


glass like the rest of ns, and sipped it with 
intense enjoyment, holding the tumbler in 
both paws and looking this way and that. 

“ He’s almost on the level of a Yahoo ! ” 
cried the doctor, laughing at the creature’s 
caricature of humanity. 

“ Or of a Labour Member who has sold his 
birthright for a mess of aristocratic society,” 
I added. 

Qwanga was standing behind her master’s 
chair, gazing in front of her with the female 
negro’s filmy and impenetrable eyes — eyes 
like a seal’s. 

Taylor made a remark to the doctor which 
I did not catch, but the doctor laughed and 
answered : “ Certainly ; there’s no scientific 
reason against it. In course of time you 
might develop a new race of man from an 
animal like that.” 

“ Could it possibly be a better one ? ” I 
asked. We all laughed, and after a very 
happy afternoon, the doctor and I put back 
to the ship. 


V 

“ SITTING AT A PLAY ” 

rpHE orchestra had just begun, and the 
whole house buzzed with the excitement 
of a first night. In those days anything might 
be expected at the Crown Theatre in Stanley 
Square, and every one of intellectual distinc- 
tion came. The writers, journalists, novelists, 
dramatists, painters and art critics, together 
with all the more prosperous kinds of freak 
and crank, were there assembled. Scattered 
about the stalls sat the dramatic critics of 
the London papers, on whose favour the 
success of a play was thought to depend. 
The front row of the pit knew them all by 
name, and, with the pride of people habituated 
to the Town, pointed them out to the crowded 
rows behind them. They also pointed out 
other well-known figures, such as Mr. Cran- 
brook, whose agreeable looks and brightly 
grizzled hair always made him conspicuous. 

“ Yes,” cried one of that front row, in the 
eagerness of special knowledge, “ there’s 


104 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


Cranbrook, M.P., him as they say is going to 
be made a Minister or something. You 
should hear him guy a witness in court ! 
Fair turn him inside out he does — cross- 
examine him till he don’t know where he’s 
standing, or what he’s done, or who he is ! 
There’s no such man as Cranbrook, M.P., for 
gettin’ at the truth.” 

“ And that’ll be his daughter along of him, 
I make no doubt,” said a stoutish woman 
behind. 

“ Don’t you think it, mother ! ” said the 
man of information, scornfully ; “ that’s 

his wife, that is. He knows a thing or two, 
does Cranbrook, M.P. ! ” 

“ Poor young thing ! ” said the woman, 
with a sigh of far-off memories. 

With greetings and smiles to acquaintances 
as they passed, Mr. and Mrs. Cranbrook made 
their way to their seats in the middle of the 
stalls. 

“ First-rate places ! ” she said, looking 
round at her husband as he helped to take 
off her cloak, so that their eyes met with 
just a gleam of something more than affec- 
tion. “ And we’re in time, after all. Now 


“SITTING AT A PLAY ” 


105 


we can enjoy the whole play from start 
to finish. I’m so glad we didn’t hurry over 
dinner.” 

“ It wasn’t dinner that kept you so long 
dressing,” he murmured, gazing with tender 
admiration on her beauty ; and with a happy 
little laugh between them they sat down. 

“ What’s the play called, again ? ” she 
asked, simply to bring herself back from 
intimacies into the public atmosphere. 

“ ‘ The Heart of a Man,’ ” he answered. 
“ I’ve only seen a puff preliminary, but it 
is said to be a kind of Worm’s Progress — 
the development of the common scoundrel — 
the sort of man that most men are, the 
Westminster hinted, in an unusual fit of 
decisiveness and cynicism.” 

“ What stuff those newspapers talk ! ” she 
said, looking up at him proudly. “ Who is 
the author ? ” 

“ That seems to be a dead secret,” he 
replied. “ The Westminster said it only hoped 
for his sake the play was not autobiographical. 
If it is, I suppose it will begin, like a Chinese 
drama, with the birth of the hero on the stage. 
An author never tires of talking about 


106 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


himself. No one tires of that ; it’s only the 
listener who tires.” 

“ I love to hear you talk about yourself,” she 
answered. “ But here’s the curtain going up.” 

“ Well,” he said, speaking low, “ I’m glad 
there are only three short acts, and then we 
shall go home — home together ! ” 

Again their eyes met for a moment, and 
they smiled fondly. 

The curtain rose, and Mrs. Cranbrook 
nestled down into her almost bridal dress of 
silvery white. Pale, dark, and very slight she 
was, and her bare arm lay along her husband’s 
sleeve, so that he could feel its warmth. 

At first she did not take much interest in 
the acting, for she was thinking of things far 
more interesting to herself. She was thinking 
how happy she felt now, and how secure her 
happiness was. All through her girlhood she 
had longed to meet just such a man as her 
husband — so open-hearted and courageous. 
She had never thought much of cleverness, 
though he was clever too. Every one said he 
would be next Under Secretary at all events ; 
that was natural, and she was proud of it. 
But she knew that people really liked him for 


“ SITTING AT A PLAY 


107 


a certain frankness of manner — an impulsive 
friendliness that won even his opponents ; it 
was so unsuspicious, so ready to accept others 
at their own valuation, or even at a higher 
valuation than their own, if that were 
possible. The law courts had given him the 
barrister’s clear-cut and decisive look, but his 
face was still amiable as a sunlit country, and 
his amenity and courteous compliance opened 
for him the gateways of opportunity. By his 
political friends and opponents alike she 
knew he was regarded as a man certain to 
“ run straight ” on every question of principle, 
without rushing off into side issues or im- 
possibly Quixotic positions. His marriage 
into one of the leading families of his party 
had seemed only a natural step in a career of 
promise assured. 

But to herself how much more that 
marriage had meant ! She was proud of her 
husband — yes, proud, but a little jealous, too, 
perhaps, that every one should think so well 
of him. She would have liked to defend him 
against some dangerous imputation — for 
something inwardly honourable, of course ! 
But no one brought a single charge against 


108 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


him, and there was nothing for her to do but 
join the chorus of praise. Never mind ! She 
alone knew his inmost heart. There she was 
safe, for a nature like his could never disap- 
point her. In reliance on that, her happiness 
was secure and could not be taken away. 
Through the last two or three years of her 
girlhood she had suffered a good deal from 
uncertainty ; for she had attracted many, 
and two or three of them had much attracted 
her. After all, one liked different people for 
different reasons, and it was so difficult to 
choose ! But when the man came whom she 
could love for every reason or for none, she 
had not hesitated, and she was calmly certain 
now. Yes ! her husband had everything she 
had most desired, and this confidence added 
a profound tranquillity to her joy. 

Realising the comfort of that tranquillity, 
she turned to him confidently again, but saw 
that he was following the play far more 
intently than herself, and wore a troubled 
look, as though something in it was difficult 
to understand. She also tried to fix her atten- 
tion on the stage. The first scene, hinting at a 
possible intrigue with a married woman of 


“SITTING AT A PLAY ” 109 

high political position, had passed, and now 
she only perceived a rather squalid representa- 
tion of a ruined household, a half-drunken 
gambler, a despairing wife, and two unhealthy, 
underfed children. Among them sat the hero, 
a correct and well-dressed gentleman who 
evidently regarded the situation as most 
unpleasant. He was excusing himself on the 
plea of business for not having been to call for 
such a long time. 

“ You see,” he was saying, “ in my pro- 
fession a rising man has to work like a demon.” 

“ I’m not a rising man,” said the decayed 
gentleman, trying with a shaky hand to make 
a cigarette out of dry tobacco-dust. 

“ And then,” the other continued, “ I’ve 
been elected to my club committee, and I’m 
legal adviser to a hospital in a poor quarter. 
The post is purely honorary, but the hospital 
does a lot of good, so I don’t grudge it. But 
it takes time doing all these things.” 

“ I take time dying,” said the other. 

At the words, Mrs. Cranbrook felt her 
husband’s arm move as though with sudden 
pain. She looked up at him, but his eyes 
were still fixed intently on the stage. 


110 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


“ Well acted, isn’t it, dear ? ” she said, 
leaning toward him so that her hair touched 
his shoulder. “ That model prig is good. So 
is the poor drunkard.” 

But he made no answer. He seemed to be 
following every word uttered on the stage, and 
she was astonished to see his lips moving in 
the semi-darkness, as though he were repeating 
the very sounds. 

The scene went on. The unhappy wife on 
the stage offered the visitor tea, which he 
rather impressively refused ; she manipulated 
her dress so as to conceal the holes in her boots ; 
she fondled the gaunt-eyed children, calling 
attention to such good points as she thought 
they possessed. Meantime her husband 
maundered confusedly about old days when 
his brother and he had been at school together, 
and what jolly times they used to have at 
the sea in the holidays. When at last the well- 
dressed visitor rose to go, his politeness 
increased as the chance of escape approached. 

“ I am so very sorry, but I am already late 
for a most important business engagement in 
my chambers,” he said, and he shook hands 
with his sister-in-law, who almost cried at 


SITTING AT A PLAY” 


111 


being spoken to so gently ; he gave half-a- 
crown to each of the two children, saying it 
was an uncle’s privilege and he was delighted 
to take it ; and finally he slapped his brother 
on the shoulder and wished them all a very 
merry Christmas. 

“ I’ll lay you five to one in anything you 
like it’s my last merry Christmas here on 
earth,” said his brother, with a tremulous 
laugh, and again Mrs. Cranbrook felt her 
husband start as though he had been struck. 

The act ended in a struggle between the 
father and the two children for the half- 
crowns ; and as the curtain fell, Mr. Cran- 
brook sank heavily back in his stall. 

“ Do you find it specially interesting ? ” his 
wife asked him, brightly, although in the 
brilliant light she saw that his face was yellow, 
and his eyes were still fixed on the curtain as 
though watching something that might be 
going on behind it. 

“ Interesting ? No, not at all,” he answered 
almost roughly, and stood up suddenly, so 
that she could not see his face. 

“ Any one would suppose you were en- 
thralled,” she said, with a touch of offence. 


112 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


But just then one of the dramatic critics 
came and sat in the stall left vacant beside 
her. 

“ Rather commonplace stuff, isn’t it ? ” he 
asked. 

“ Oh no ! ” she said, laughing. “ At least I 
hope that hero isn’t commonplace.” 

“ Yes, he is,” said the critic. “ I think that 
must be the author’s object.” 

“ Who is the author, really ? ” asked Mr. 
Cranbrook, looking down on them almost 
savagely. 

“ That’s the queer thing about it — no one 
knows,” said the critic. “ The manager 
swears he doesn’t know himself. But he likes 
a bit of mystery. As I Was saying, the author’s 
object apparently was to describe the tragedy 
of the average bounder.” 

Mr. Cranbrook turned quickly away. 

“ The average bounder you may call him, 
perhaps,” said his wife, “ but he’s not the 
average man, thank Heaven ! ” 

“ My dear Mrs. Cranbrook,” said the critic, 
languidly, “ the two are one.” 

“ Mr. Scott says that creature is only the 
average man ! ” she cried, to her husband. 


“ SITTING AT A PLAY ” 


113 


“ Isn’t that a libel on mankind ? Did you ever 
see any one more contemptible ? ” 

“ Don’t say that,” he said, sitting down 
again, but leaning far back. “ Perhaps he 
wasn’t really a bad sort of fellow. He wasn’t 
unkindly — only very much occupied. If 
some members of a family won’t work, the 
rest have to work for them. Don’t be 
hard on the man ; you’ve only heard one 
side.” 

“ Oh, if you play the barrister, there’s no 
more to be said,” she answered, a little hurt. 
“ But whatever you clever people say, to me 
such a creature would be intolerable ! Yes, 
intolerable ! ” she repeated, with an indignant 
little shudder. 

But as the lights went down for the second 
act, she turned gently to her husband, and 
putting her lips close to his ear in the momen- 
tary darkness, she whispered, “ Be nice to me, 
dearest ; do be nice ! ” 

Leaning forward against the back of the 
stall in front of him, he made no sign, but 
again became absorbed in the play. She fixed 
her eyes on him, in such distress that she 
hardly understood what the acting was all 

os 8 


114 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


about. It was only in spite of herself that she 
caught the general drift. 

The act opened on the evening of the same 
day, and the scene represented a political 
reception at a Cabinet Minister’s house. The 
hero was moving about from one group of 
people to another, and everywhere he Was 
received with smiles and congratulations, for 
it was known that in all probability he would 
be chosen to stand as the party’s nominee at a 
coming by-election. Then music was heard 
in the distance, and the room began to empty 
gradually, till at last the hero remained almost 
alone, leaning over a chair in which the 
beautiful woman who had appeared at the 
beginning of the first act was sitting. They 
conversed as casual acquaintances, but their 
looks and occasional words would have 
betrayed them to any observer who knew love. 
They began by discussing a political cause 
that both had very much at heart. 

“ Do you know,” she then said, after the 
other guests had left them isolated for a time — 
“ do you know I passed quite close to you this 
afternoon and you never saw me ? I was so 
hurt. I thought I had enough magnetic attrac- 


SITTING AT A PLAY” 


115 


tion to make you look, but your mind was 
fixed on something far away. I was in Notting 
Hill.” 

“ I’m so sorry,” said the hero, uneasily ; 
“ yes, I was down that way this afternoon — 
on business simply. It’s a wretched district.” 

“ Oh, I know that,” she answered. “ When 
I have a moment’s leisure I do a little visiting 
there for the Charity Organisation Society. 
That sort of thing rather pleases our con- 
stituents, don’t you know ! It’s queer that, 
only an hour or two before, I had visited a 
miserable family of the same name as yours, 
and it isn’t a common name. When I men- 
tioned the coincidence to the unfortunate 
woman, she looked embarrassed and claimed 
some sort of absurd relationship.” 

“ That’s a very strange thing ! ” said the 
hero. “ I know the people you mean. The 
poor woman was quite right. They are a kind 
of poor relation. It ought to be rather 
pleasant to have poor relations. It ought to 
make one feel quite prosperous and successful 
by contrast, you know,” he added, with a 
smile. “ But it doesn’t. I suppose I shall 
have to go and look them up again.” 

8—2 


116 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


“ Oh, I’m afraid you’ll find them far from 
deserving,” she answered, lightly. “ The man 
seems to drink, and gamble besides. The 
C. 0. S. would never dream of helping them. 
But still, people are always telling us that 
blood is thicker than water.” 

“ Only when they want our help,” replied 
the hero, laughing, “and then blood becomes 
uncommonly thick ! ” 

“ Don’t be bitter, dear,” the woman said, 
in a lower voice ; “ you know what you are to 
me, and I love you most because you are 
never hard on other people, no matter what 
they do. But I am going now. Say good- 
night to me prettily. Here are the politicians 
coming for you. They are incapable of happi- 
ness themselves, poor things ! and so a whisper 
of scandal would ruin your career — even 
more certainly than a poor relation. Oh, 
hush ! You mustn’t look like that ! ” And, 
with a lingering glance, she went. 

As long as she was on the stage, Mr. Cran- 
brook remained absolutely still, leaning on 
the back of the stall in front, with his head 
between his hands. He hardly seemed to 
breathe, he was so motionless. He was listen- 


“ SITTING AT A PLAY” 


117 


ing with an almost terrified intentness — so 
absorbed that his wife felt a touch of relief 
when the politicians entered, and, as though a 
chain had snapped, her husband sat back in 
his chair and passed his handkerchief hurriedly 
over his face. 

The politicians had come to offer the con- 
stituency to the hero, as was expected. They 
expressed the admiration and confidence of 
the party. They said all manner of flattering 
things, which the hero deprecated with smiling 
gratification. Then, quite unexpectedly, they 
attached one condition to their offer. They 
must ask him to make no mention at all of one 
particular cause which he was known to favour. 
It was a cause that the party leaders still con- 
sidered of dubious popularity. If his con- 
stituents questioned him about it, he must say 
that he had not fully made up his mind on the 
subject, or that it was not yet before the 
country, or that on a matter of such import- 
ance he would trust implicitly to the wisdom 
of his great leader. The hero hesitated. It 
Was a cause for which he felt some enthusiasm, 
and he had just promised the woman he loved 
to support it. The discussion lasted long. He 


118 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


put forward his best arguments, but the 
politicians were firm. They assured him the 
whole question was in the idealist stage. 
Would he join the impatient idealists, who 
not only wrecked parties, but ruined their own 
future ? He reminded them that a reputation 
for consistency and unselfishness was some- 
times useful, too. They replied they could 
not offer him the seat without the condition, 
and a footing in politics was almost essential 
to his career, to say nothing of the extra- 
ordinary value of his services to the country. 

During this dialogue Mr. Cranbrook, instead 
of sitting motionless as before, became more 
and more restive, and his wife again heard him 
muttering the words almost before they were 
spoken on the stage. When the hero main- 
tained the uses of a reputation for consistency 
and unselfishness, and the audience laughed 
with scorn, Mr. Cranbrook clenched his fists 
together and said, “ What’s there to laugh at ? ” 
so loud that the people in front turned round 
and said, “ Hush ! ” 

“ Is anything the matter, dearest ? ” whis- 
pered his wife, in great anxiety, when at last 
the curtain fell on the hero demanding time 


“SITTING AT A PLAY” 


119 


for consideration. “ Is anything the matter ? 
Aren’t you well ? ” 

“ I suppose I’m not,” he answered, looking 
at her sideways, with haunted eyes. “ I feel 
very strange.” 

“ Then we’ll go straight home,” she said, 
rising. 

“ No, we’ll stay to the end,” he answered. 
“ I must see the author, if he appears.” 

“ Don’t talk as if you were going to torture 
him to death,” she said, laughing uneasily. 
“ It’s not much of a play, but it’s not so bad 
as all that.” 

They went for air into the corridor, where 
they found the critics discussing the act, but 
guardedly, lest they should give away points 
from their own “ copy.” One of them, how- 
ever, ventured to say to the Cranbrooks : 
“ The scale of tone is kept very low and quiet. 
There is nothing unusual. Nearly all of us 
would have done just what that man did. We 
are all made in water-tight compartments, 
shut off by iron doors, and we look all right as 
long as the doors keep shut. Everybody does 
that sort of thing at some time or other, and 
yet what a terror the man is made to appear ! ” 


120 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


“ Not only to appear,” retorted Mrs. Cran- 
brook, quickly. “ He is a terror.” 

“ No ! ” cried her husband, with sudden 
violence. “ I absolutely deny it.” 

“ To disown his very brother — to sell his 
soul for a seat in Parliament — to make love, 
love of that kind — all within an hour ! ” she 
expostulated, indignantly. 

“ One could forgive the love-making easily 
enough,” said the critic, anxious to conciliate. 
“ One forgives a genuine and overwhelming 
passion.” 

“ Yes,” Mr. Cranbrook repeated, eagerly, 
“ we forgive everything to a genuine and 
overwhelming passion. What right have we 
to judge the man ? We know nothing of his 
real motives.” 

“ My dear Cranbrook, you are the only true 
Christian,” said the critic, with an almost 
imperceptible sigh of boredom. “ I can’t 
think how you keep up the higher morality 
in the law courts. But you must allow a mere 
pagan to call the fellow a reptile — not an 
exceptionally bad one, but always a reptile.” 

Mrs. Cranbrook felt her husband’s arm 
suddenly tighten upon hers. They walked 


“ SITTING AT A PLAY” 121 

on, and she saw his eyes were closed and his 
lips pressed tight together. 

“ Do let us go home, dearest,” she urged* 
“ You are not at all yourself to-night.” 

“ What self ? ” he cried, with an almost 
insane laugh. “ I tell you I must see it out.” 

The call-bell rang and they returned to their 
places. 

The third act opened with the hero’s 
triumph some months later. He was seated 
at his writing-table reading telegrams and 
letters of congratulation for his victory at the 
by-election. One telegram from his party 
leader expressed high satisfaction with his 
tact and good sense. An autograph letter 
from another Cabinet Minister foretold a great 
career for a man who could thus sacrifice his 
private prejudices for the public good, and it 
went on to hint congratulations on yet another 
hopeful avenue to success — a possible alliance 
with a most influential family of which he had 
heard rumours. 

The hero frowned a little, as though a secret 
had been detected too soon, and Mrs. Cran- 
brook felt her husband start as though he 
were going to spring up. 


122 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


But the hero’s poverty-stricken sister-in- 
law was immediately shown in the room, 
dressed with obvious efforts at tidiness, and 
she tearfully explained that her girl had died, 
not seeming to care about living any longer, 
and the doctor said her husband must be put 
under restraint, and she couldn’t bear to think 
of sending him to a common asylum. 

The hero was quite sympathetic. An in- 
voluntary sense of relief made him distinctly 
benign, and with generous alacrity he offered 
to contribute enough to keep his brother in 
some inebriate Home, at all events for a year 
or two. After a pause, during which his 
sister-in-law pitifully sobbed her gratitude, he 
added only two small conditions : that the 
Home should be either in the country or 
abroad, and that the family should take a new 
name. 

“ You see, my poor brother was always fond 
of foreign travel and country life,” he urged, 
“ and it will be so much better for your boy 
to have a fresh start without any possibly 
unpleasant associations clinging to his name. 
Not, of course, that there is anything really to 
be ashamed of,” he added, while the audience 


SITTING AT A PLAY” 


123 


laughed in derision, and with hands tightly 
clasped together Mr. Cranbrook sat still as 
death. 

While the sister-in-law was tearfully accept- 
ing any conditions offered her, the woman so 
passionately loved in the first two acts entered, 
as though by right. Steeling himself for the 
worst, the hero introduced his poor relation 
as one already known to the lady, hoped her 
husband would go on better now, and led her 
to the door with polite assurances. Then he 
stood silent in the middle of the room and 
waited. Certainly the woman looked very 
beautiful. 

“ I’m not at all surprised that you have 
been deceiving me about those people,” she 
began, very quietly. “ A man like you is 
capable of any meanness, any deceit, especially 
where women are concerned.” 

“ It’s not true ! I tell you it’s not true ! ” 
Mrs. Cranbrook heard her husband mutter, 
and again the people in front cried, “ Hush ! ’* 
and laughed among themselves. 

“ So you are going to marry a pretty 
child ! ” the woman on the stage went on, and 
putting her hands over her face, she uttered 


124 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


one low cry of despair and anger that kept the 
house very still. Then followed reproaches, 
appeals to memories, and to the passion that 
was so recent, after all. In the end came 
violent outpourings of grief and shame — the 
grief of a woman who had staked all on one 
throw and lost — the shame of living on 
unloved while the man for whom she had 
risked everything was happy with a girl — an 
ignorant, inexperienced girl 1 

“ What faith I had in you ! ” cried the 
woman. “ I worshipped you, I gave you all 
I had to give, and this is the thing you were !” 

One or two women in the pit began to cry 
quietly behind their handkerchiefs. Mr. 
Cranbrook sat motionless, his face turned 
away both from his wife and from the stage. 

The hero attempted explanations. He 
loved her still ; he was deeply grateful to her ; 
she had inspired him ; she had renewed his 
existence, and was the true cause of all his 
success ; he could never forget all she had 
done. But the position was becoming impos- 
sible. Such relationships could not last for 
ever ; they seldom lasted so long. 

He tried to approach her, but with a cry of 


“SITTING AT A PLAY ” 


125 


horror she flung him away, while the gallery 
gave one shout of approval. 

“ Well/’ said the hero, still holding out 
both hands as though in a last appeal, “you 
may do and say what you like, I have never 
loved any one as I have loved you. You have 
been far more to me than my truest friend, 
and the very memory of you will be more to 
me than the love of any other woman.” 

“ No, no ! I never said that ! ” Mrs. Cran- 
brook heard her husband mutter almost 
aloud. 

There was a knock at the door on the stage, 
and a footman announced : “ Mrs. and Miss 
Jameson would be glad to congratulate you in 
person, sir, when you are disengaged.” 

“ Show them into the drawing-room for a 
moment,” said the hero ; “ I’ll ring.” 

“ Oh, please let them come up at once,” 
said the woman, coldly. “ Our business is 
finished, and I shall be so glad to see the 
beautiful Miss Jameson, whom you find so 
attractive.” 

When the footman was gone, she continued : 
“ You needn’t have been afraid. I shan’t 
betray you to your lovely bride. I thought 


126 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


you so brave once, and now you see, dear, you 
have almost become a coward.” 

For a moment all was still. Then voices 
were heard approaching from outside in gay 
conversation. The footman was heard saying, 
“ This way, madam ! ” 

“ Keep that door shut ! ” shouted Mr. 
Cranbrook, springing to his feet and stretching 
out an arm to the stage. “ Keep that door 
shut ! Let no one come in, or I’ll break up the 
piece ! The play is a libel, a foul libel ! I tell 
you the whole thing is a libel on me.” 

Instantly the whole theatre was in a turmoil 
of curiosity and excitement. All stood up and 
began shouting and laughing and asking 
questions at once. A few made for the exits 
in panic. The play stopped. The actors 
stood silent in the middle of the stage. The 
manager came to the footlights. He implored 
the audience to be calm. He called on the 
orchestra to play the national anthem. 

Mrs. Cranbrook stood with her arms flung 
round her husband, either to protect or 
restrain him. But he continued to gesticulate 
and shout incoherent words of defiance. Two 
attendants hurriedly made their way toward 


“SITTING AT A PLAY ” 


127 


him along the stalls. Seizing him firmly by 
the shoulders, they began to conduct him out, 
amid the angry shouting and laughter of the 
pit and gallery. The lights were turned up, 
and his wife was seen following him, still with 
one hand on his arm. 

A taxi was called. Mr. Cranbrook sat for- 
ward in the cab, his eyes staring at the window 
in front of him as though he still saw what was 
being acted on the stage. At last, without 
moving, he said, “ If they had opened that 
door, it would have been you that came 
in!” 

But she lay huddled up in a corner, shaken 
with deep and quivering sobs. At the sound 
of his voice she sought his hand and cherished 
it in hers, but neither of them spoke any 
more. 

When they reached home, she led him to 
their room and set him down before the fire. 
Kneeling at his feet, she laid her arms round 
him and put her face against his, though he 
shrank from her. “ What is it, dearest ? ” she 
said. “ Oh, what is it ? What terrible thing 
has happened ? ” 

But he was silent. At last, in a weak and 


128 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


far-off voice, he said : “ They don’t under- 
stand ! Oh, they don’t understand ! I’m 
not in the least like that.” 

“ Of course you’re not, dearest ! ” she cried. 
“ Like that detestable creature ! You are so 
brave and honourable ! What on earth made 
you think of such a thing ? ” 

Again he was silent. Then he said : “I 
have done everything that man did, I have 
said everything that man said. Every word of 
that play was literally true of me. Some devil 
must have written it. But I’m not like that ! 
They don’t understand. I’m not in the least 
like that ! ” 

“ Of course you’re not, dear love ! ” she 
repeated. “ No matter what you may have 
done, you’re not in the least like that.” 

“ I have done everything exactly the same,” 
he cried, aloud, “ but I’m not a bad man 
really ! I’m not an average scoundrel ! I’m 
not a reptile or anything of the sort ! I’m not 
in the least like that, and yet I’ve done all 
these things.” 

“ Dearest,” she answered, “lam here with 
you, I love you. Feel where my heart is 
beating ! ” 


SITTING AT A PLAY 


129 


“ Oh, tell me I'm not like that ! ” he 
repeated, leaning to her at last. 

“ Never, dearest, never could you be,” she 
said, fondling him like a sick child. “ Do you 
think I should ever have let a man like that 
touch me ? Never, never could I have loved 
you if you had been like that ! ” 

Next morning the papers cut their criticisms 
of the play very short. All agreed that the 
extraordinary incident, as they called it, had 
caused them to forget any dramatic interest 
the play might have possessed. One said that 
probably nothing so absurd had happened in a 
theatre since a man screamed because he was 
quite as terrified of the Ghost as Hamlet was. 

“ After all,” another sneered, “ if Heaven 
gave us the power to see ourselves as others 
see us, it would be a very dubious gift. The 
incident,” it went on, “ speaks much for the 
verisimilitude of the play and the acting ; 
nothing could have been a better adv . . . t. 
The mystery of the authorship remains 
unsolved. But may we hint with all possible 
delicacy that perhaps the distinguished barris- 
ter and politician himself knows a good deal 
more about that mystery than would appear ? ” 


130 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


Another paper refused to touch upon the 
personal question, but added : “ To sit in a 
theatre and watch one’s own life enacted on 
the stage has always seemed to us a fitting 
torment for the lowest circle in hell. Who 
could endure it ? ” 


VI 


A TRANSFORMATION SCENE 

K EEP her right on ! — right on ! ” said 
the skipper to the man at the wheel, 
just glancing at the compass, and then back 
again at the waves that struck heavily against 
the port bow and flung the trawler’s nose high 
out of water, letting her down with a splash 
of white foam into the trough. 

“ Eight on it is,” repeated the man, 
methodically. 

“ The steamship Briton ,” as her skipper 
delighted to call her, was a largish boat out of 
Grimsby. “ Big enough to go to Iceland,” her 
crew boasted. And, after a fortnight out, she 
was just returning from the Faroe Bank, full 
up with fish — big haddock, halibut each as big 
as a dining-room table, and cod — the” richest ” 
cod now brought to market. For the Bank is 
a refuge to the big fish in the northern seas. 
It is deep — a hundred fathoms deep — and the 
heavy swell seldom lets the trawlers work 

9-2 


132 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


with long enough warps to reach it. So there 
the fish lie quiet, undisturbed by the trawl’s 
wooden doors and the inextricable chasm of 
net behind them. 

“ Never you mind for the sea,” the skipper 
said, as the man at the wheel put her head up 
to meet a breaking wave. “ It’s nothing only 
the Firth having its game. Keep her right on ! 
We’re always urgent going home.” 

“ What for ? ” said the man at the wheel, 
as he ran the spoke handles so hard round to 
starboard that the next wave hung for a 
moment high above the ship’s side, and then 
crashed over the bulwarks, filling the deck 
with a swishing load of green water and foam 
that poured in torrents through the scuppers 
as she came up again and rose to the wave 
beyond. 

“ What for ? ” said the skipper. “ There’s 
a question for a man to ask ! Anybody could 
tell what’s the matter with you, young man ! 
Keep her right on.” 

“ Right on it is,” repeated the man at the 
wheel. 

In silence they beat up through the Firth 
under a stiff easterly breeze, while the March 


A TRANSFORMATION SCENE 133 


sunshine made the spray and swinging waves 
gleam with purple and white. 

As they came round the Head, the skipper 
set the course three points south, and the 
change seemed to bring to life a thought that 
had been slowly forming in his mind. For his 
thoughts were not so rapid as his ship, and 
she could barely make ten knots. 

“ I seed her once, Jim, on the pier-end at 
Hull when you was coming away,” he said. 
“ Now keep her south-south-east.” 

44 South-south-east it is,” said Jim, just 
moving the wheel to and fro between his 
hands. 

44 I seed her once on the pier-end when we 
was sailing from Hull,” the skipper continued, 
some minutes later, 44 and I says to myself, 4 If 
that there female draws no more than one 
man’s money on a Friday,* I says, 4 it won’t 
be for want of the asking,* I says ; 4 not if other 
men’s mostly like me.’ ” 

Jim said nothing, but spat sideways and 
looked at the compass again. 

44 There’s some females does, and there’s 
some doesn’t, and no offence meant,” said the 
skipper, after a long pause. 44 Keep her up. 


134 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


Don’t get giving to the sea. How long was 
you married ? ” 

“ A year and three months,” said Jim. 

“ There’s them as would give something for 
three months, let alone a year,” said the 
skipper, as though meditating to himself. 
“ It’s a wonder, it’s a fair old wonder,” he 
added, slowly shaking his head. 

“ What’s a bloody wonder ? ” asked Jim. 

“ Keep her south-south-east till you’ve got 
Buchan Ness on the starboard bow, and then 
you send for me and I’ll set her for the Long- 
stone,” said the skipper. “ And the wonder 
is, my son,” he added, slowly, shading his eyes 
as though he saw possible danger far in front ; 
“ the wonder is as she stayed with you so 
long.” 

“ Oh, that’s the bloody wonder, is it ? ” said 
Jim, gripping the wheel savagely, and he held 
the bow steady to the compass, as, with jib 
and mizzen set, the steamship Briton plunged 
and rolled forward, the heavy water sweeping 
over her deck, and the clouds of spray mingling 
with her smoke when the stokers piled on the 
coal, so urgent was the skipper to get home. 

Day and night, day and night she fought 


A TRANSFORMATION SCENE 135 


her way, past Longstone, past Flamborough 
Head, and whenever Jim saw the skipper 
those words came into his mind : “ The 
wonder is she stayed with you so long,” and 
they filled him with a dull sense of anger. At 
last the trawler rounded the Spurn and 
entered the brown expanse of the Humber, 
making up for the old hydraulic tower that 
rises clear three hundred feet above the dock 
gates of Grimsby. It was early morning, and 
on the flood they passed into the trawlers’ 
basin, without having to wait for tide, so 
closely had the skipper reckoned his time from 
his last trawl on the Faroe Bank ; he was 
always so urgent to get home. And as they 
glided into the dock Jim looked up to where 
the skipper was standing on the bridge, serene 
in his mastery over time and fish, and again 
the words returned : “ The wonder is she 
stayed with you so long.” 

“ Blast him ! ” said Jim, as he flung a rope 
ashore. “ And blast her, too ! ” he added, 
giving the rope a vicious twist round the 
stays. 

Even before they had done tying up, the 
unloading began. To and fro, from ship to 


136 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


pontoon, the baskets swung, piled with fish 
from the pens separated by boards and stuffed 
with ice in the hold below. As they swung, 
the baskets were caught by men with long 
iron hooks, who dragged them into place upon 
the pontoon or landing-stage. They were 
emptied under the sheds, and the piles of fish 
were sorted out, some tucked by force into 
open boxes, some laid in long, straight lines 
upon the flags — score after score of huge 
halibut, cod with gaping mouths, ling, coal- 
fish, catfish, skate, and the “ devils ” of the 
deep that go with codlings and little haddock 
to make up “ offal ” — just as, in a royal 
procession, the pickpockets are classed with 
the undistinguished citizens as “ crowd.” 
The buyers passed up and down the sheds, 
fixing the prices, bargaining by the box — 
smartly dressed young men in leggings, 
wearing a peculiar horsey air, as though to 
disclaim any connection with the sea. 

By the time the buying was over and the 
pontoon-boys began decapitating the fish 
on the edge of the barrels, the Briton had been 
washed down with hose-pipes, and stood 
deserted by all but her watchman. He then 


A TRANSFORMATION SCENE 137 


shut down the hatches, locked the door above 
his head, and went to sleep below, like a 
squirrel in its nest. The rest of the crew 
tramped off, filthy and tired, to their homes 
for a wash and a sleep. They were bound 
either for good homes in sober rows of red- 
brick houses, each exactly like the other, with 
lace curtains and an india-rubber plant in the 
front window, or for bad homes down black- 
ened courts, where the door stood open to let 
out the smoke and a confused smell of food, 
washing and children. But all were homes, 
and each of the crew was greeted by a woman 
of some sort, tidy or bedraggled, nice-looking 
or smudgy. 

All were greeted but Jim. Without saying 
a word to any one, he walked heavily along a 
few dull streets to a dull little house, where he 
had hired a room for himself. Some dusty 
tea-things and bread and cheese stood set 
out as usual on the table by the woman of 
the house, on che chance of his coming back 
at any time. It was too much trouble to boil 
the kettle, but he ate the bread and cheese, 
and throwing himself on a worn-out horsehair 
sofa, he went to sleep in his clothes. 


138 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


It was afternoon when he woke, but he 
lay still, for if he got up there was nothing for 
him to do* It was no good walking about the 
streets, for he did not care to speak to any 
one, and he did not want to get drunk till the 
evening. He knew how he would end the 
night, and he looked forward with pleasure to 
its dirty debauchery. That was the thing 
he lived for, and it was coming. But there 
were many hours between now and night, and 
so he lay still and waited. 

Suddenly a great shout of “ Jim, ahoy ! ” 
came from the street below. It was the 
skipper’s voice, and at the sound of it those 
words again passed through Jim’s mind : 
“ The wonder is she stayed with you so 
long.” 

“ What does the old man want now, burn 
him ? ” he said to himself. But he answered 
with another shout of “ Ahoy ! ” like an echo, 
and, slowly rolling off the sofa, he saw from 
the window the skipper holding a tiny boy 
by one hand and in the other carrying a 
bait-pot and some fishing-lines, wound round 
fire-sticks. 

“ You come out, Jim, and learn to enjoy 


A TRANSFORMATION SCENE 139 


yourself like a decent man,” shouted the 
skipper, as though he were hailing a ship that 
passed in the night. 

“ Where are you bound for ? ” said Jim. 

“ Breakwater, for a bit of sport,” shouted 
the skipper. 

“ Had about enough of fishing,” said Jim, 
shaking his head. 

“ This ain’t fishing,” shouted the skipper, 
lest the whole street might fall into the same 
mistake. “ This here’s sport ! ” 

No matter how many hundredweight of 
fish the skipper brought home each trip, he 
invariably spent his leisure time ashore sitting 
on the breakwater and dangling a line in the 
brown shallows, not far from a drain. Some- 
times he caught something. 

Jim looked at the sky and saw it was still 
much too early to begin the evening’s pleasure. 
So he stretched himself, slowly filled his pipe, 
and went down. He took no notice of the 
boy, who clung to the skipper’s hand and 
waddled along beside them, now and then 
looking round the skipper’s legs at the big 
stranger with shy curiosity. Passing beside 
the oldest of the basins, they walked silently 


140 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


out to the end of the long breakwater that 
forms the northern arm of the harbour. 

“ Now, you stop here with Jim while I go 
below,” said the skipper to the child, going 
down some steps to a lower platform from 
which he could drop his line better. 

“ Don’t want to stop with Jim ! Want to 
come with skipper,” yelled the child, setting 
up a terrible howl. 

“ Oh, you onnatural little monster ! ” said 
the skipper as he disappeared. 

“ You stop that noise or I’ll drownd you ! ” 
said Jim, sitting down with his back against 
a post and his feet dangling over the edge of 
the breakwater. 

The child tried to keep from crying, and 
sat down within reach of Jim’s side, still 
gulping with sobs. But Jim paid no more 
attention to it. He did not think of anything 
in particular. He just enjoyed sitting still, 
and now and then he wondered which public- 
houses he should choose that evening, and 
what prostitute he would find. 

He would not have long to wait, for the 
spring twilight was closing in, and here and 
there a boat at anchor began to hang out its 


A TRANSFORMATION SCENE 141 


lamps. Suddenly the distant lighthouses 
flashed, all at the same moment, like lovers 
calling to each other after the silence of a day. 
Footsteps increased upon the breakwater, for 
it was a favourite evening walk for lovers, 
and still leaning against the post, Jim swung 
himself round to look at them. Overcome 
with sleep, the skipper’s child half leaned 
against his side. 

Most of the people were young men and 
girls from shops or offices. Sometimes a 
father passed, wheeling the perambulator 
because it was Saturday night, while the 
mother walked beside him, at leisure for once. 
Here and there a man strolled up and down 
alone, and sometimes a woman went by, 
wishing to attract attention, and yet ashamed. 
Jim’s eyes followed each with indiscriminate 
desire, as the eyes of a hungry man devour a 
banquet not spread for him. He knew that 
every woman there would despise him as a 
common fisherman, but none the less he 
watched them hungrily. One especially he 
watched as she moved rather quickly along 
the farther side of the breakwater, closely 
followed by two men in straw hats, who were 


142 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


evidently jeering at her and laughing at their 
own taunts and indecencies. 

Suddenly she stopped with a sharp cry of 
pain and turned upon them. 

“ Leave me alone ! Leave me alone/* she 
cried, stretching out her hands in helpless 
defence. 

They laughed as at an excellent joke, and 
tried to walk away, but others came running 
up and crowded round the group. 

“ What have they been doing to you, 
dear ? ** said one, in mock sympathy, and the 
rest all laughed. 

“ Leave me alone ! ” the woman kept 
repeating, as she faced the two youths, who 
laughed as hard as they could so as to win 
support. 

“ What*s the matter ? ** asked a citizen in 
a respectable hat, pushing his way into the 
crowd, while his wife clung to his arm. 

“ They jammed a cigar against my neck, 
and all the hot ashes are running down me/* 
the woman said, nearly crying with anger and 
pain. 

“ Indecent creature ! ’* said the citizen’s 
wife. “ She ought to be ashamed of herself ! 


A TRANSFORMATION SCENE 143 


Serve her right ! That’s what I say ! Walk- 
ing about dressed like a guy ! ” 

“ Oh, my poor neck ! my poor neck ! ” 
cried the woman, holding her hands before 
her face, as she saw the citizen join in the 
yelling derision of the crowd. 

“ Oh, my poor neck ! My poor neck ! ” 
the straw-hatted youths repeated, in squeak- 
ing imitation of her voice. “ Did it get 
hot ashes down it, did it ? Let’s see if 
we can’t make it well, same as mother 
does ! ” 

The crowd screamed with delight and 
pressed round her, pulling at her dress, 
tweaking her hair, tilting her large hat with 
its feathers over her eyes, and pushing her 
from one to another. 

Sobbing with rage, the woman kept her 
face hidden in her hands and made no more 
resistance. 

“ You drop it or I’ll drownd you ! ” 
shouted Jim, shouldering his way through 
the thick of the crowd, like a barge swinging 
up-stream. 

“ What’s the matter with you ? Who are 
you a-shovin’ of ? ” cried the crowd. “ Hullo ! 


144 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


Here’s her man a-comin’ ! Below there ! 
Who said husband ? ” 

“ I said husband ,” said Jim, and swinging 
round his great arm he gave one of the straw- 
hatted youths a stunning blow on the side of 
the head that stretched him on the stone flags 
like a slaughtered ox. 

“ 0 Lord ! 0 Lord ! ” said the crowd, in 
much moderated tones, and they began to 
hurry away, pretending they had never been 
there. 

“ Quite right, too, to stick up for a woman,” 
said one. 

“ Shows a decent feeling,” said another. 

“ More especially, he being her husband,” 
said the citizen in the respectable hat. 

“ Husband, indeed ! ” said his wife. 

“ Well, I’m not that sort myself,” said the 
citizen, “ but all I say is, if a man mayn’t 
stand up for a female in distress, who may he 
stand up for ? ” 

“ Female’s right,” answered his wife. 

So they dispersed. The youth picked up 
his straw hat and the cigar end, and staggered 
off, still dazed from the blow. Jim and the 
woman were left alone. 


A TRANSFORMATION SCENE 145 


She had stopped crying and stood half 
turned away from him, staring out to sea, 
her eyes fixed upon the point where, every few 
seconds, the Spurn light flashed. 

Without looking at her or saying a word, 
Jim went back to his place beside the post, 
and sat down with his feet dangling over the 
water that lapped and gurgled faintly against 
the wall. The child still lay asleep on the 
s tones. - 

The woman pinned her hat straight, and 
pulled her jacket and dress into position. 
Then she followed and stood beside him so 
that her skirt just touched his arm. 

“ Jim,” she said, but he only moved his 
arm away, and made no answer. 

“ I only wanted to say thank you,” she 
said. 

“ Go and drownd yourself,” he replied, 
without moving. 

“ I’m going,” she answered. “ I only 
wanted to say thank you. You always had a 
good heart.” 

Jim said nothing, but kicked his great 
boots against the stone. 

“ Oh, my poor neck ! ” said the woman, 


146 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


as she drew her jacket more tightly round her. 
“ My poor neck do hurt so ! ” 

“ Never mind for your neck ! You go and 
drownd yourself,” said Jim. 

“ All right ; I’m going,” she said, wearily, 
again. 

“ Why don’t you go, then ? ” said Jim, 
half turning round. “ And if ever I catch 
you in Grimsby again, I’ll drownd you with 
my own hands.” 

“ How was I to know you was in Grimsby 
and had come away from Hull ? And what 
was you doing down on the breakwater, I’d 
like to know ? ” she added, with sudden anger. 
“ It’s always the same with you, I reckon, 
when you come ashore.” 

“ Never you mind for me ! ” he cried, half 
getting up and turning toward her. “ What 
was you doing yourself ? That’s what I’d 
like to know. What was you doing your- 
self ? ” 

She made no answer, but again stared out 
to the horizon, where the Spurn light was 
flashing. 

Jim returned to his position and settled 
himself down with the air of one who has done 


A TRANSFORMATION SCENE 147 


with a troublesome business. At the same 
time he drew the child close up against him, 
pulling it over the stones by the aid of its 
pinafore. Half waking, it gave a little, 
babyish cry. 

“ What’s that ? What child’s that ? ” 
said the woman, in a whisper, and with a 
quick movement she came and leaned over 
it, as if she were going to take it up. 

“ Don’t you dare touch it,” said Jim. 
“ You’re not fit to touch it.” 

“ Oh, Jim,” she said, staring down into the 
child’s face ; “ whose child’s that ? ” 

“ No matter for whose it is,” said Jim, 
putting up an arm to keep her away ; 
“ you’re no more fit to touch it than if it was 
mine.” 

“ I nurse ours every day — mostly three 
times, and once at night,” said the woman. 

Both were silent, and they heard the waves 
splashing softly against the foot of the break- 
water. 

“ You lie,” said Jim at last, spitting into 
the sea, as with the relief of a question 
settled. 

“ Me hearing that child cry,” the woman 

10—2 


148 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


went on, continuing her own thoughts, “ I 
thought it was him for the minute, and my 
breast started aching, for all that this one’s 
four times the size of ours, him only rising six 
months.” 

“ You lie,” Jim replied, conclusively. 
“ Don’t you come playing none of your 
‘ ours ’ on me ! ” 

“ You dare call my child out of his name ! ” 
she cried, turning on him with fury ; “ him 
as you’re the father of — yes, you yourself, if 
ever there was a father on God’s earth ! 
And now you set there, spitting into the sea 
and saying your own child ain’t yours, him 
as I went away to save when I was two 
months gone, there being some things as no 
woman ’ll stand. Why don’t you go and 
talk like that to some of your other girls ? ” 

“ Don’t you say nothing against me, or I’ll 
black your eye,” said Jim. 

“ Do it ! ” cried the woman. “ Do it ! 
and I’ll meet you at the ‘ Imperial ’ to-night 
and tell them all as you’re the man that 
blacks his own wife’s eyes and calls his child 
a barstud ! What’ll your Janes and Susans 
and Ethels say to you then ? They’ll say 


A TRANSFORMATION SCENE 149 


the same as any Woman would, no matter for 
her being decent or indecent. They’ll spit 
at you, same as you spit in the sea.” 

“ Don’t you say nothing against them, or 
I’ll blind you,” said Jim. 

“I’m not saying nothing against them, 
God help us ! ” answered the woman. 

“ You’d best go and drownd yourself 
quick,” said Jim, as though to end discussion. 

“ I’m no worse than them other girls you’re 
so fond of,” she said, trying to keep from 
crying. “ I’m no worse, and you was always 
after them. You never told them to go and 
drownd theirselves, I warrant.” 

“ What have you been doing,” he said, 
suddenly, “ since that day I came ashore in 
Hull and found you was gone and the room 
empty, barring one day’s food ? ” 

“ There’s some things no decent woman *11 
stand,” she answered. “ Where did you go 
that night ? Same as every time you came 
ashore ? ” 

“ Never you mind for me,” he said. “ What 
have you been doing ? ” 

She did not answer for a time. Then she 
said, “ I was drove, God help me!” 


150 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


44 Oh, you was drove, was you ? ” said Jim. 
41 And you might have been drawing my 
money every Friday ! ” 

44 There’s some things as a decent woman 
won’t stand, no matter for money or no 
money,” she persisted. 

44 Call yourself a decent woman ! ” he said. 
44 You’d best go back to your blasted baby and 
drownd it ! ” 

44 I’m going. Good-bye, Jim,” she said, 
and began slowly to move away. 

44 Where have you got that child ? ” he 
said, getting up and going after her. 

She made no answer. 

44 Are you keeping my child in the same 
room as yourself ? ” he cried, gripping her 
arm to make her stop. 

44 He ain’t your child. He’s mine,” she 
said, trying to shake him off. 

44 You give it to me ! ” he said. 44 You ain’t 
fit to touch it.” 

44 Me give him to you ! ” she cried, shaking 
herself free. 44 I’d see you dead first. It’s 
you’s not fit to touch him.” 

44 You give it to me, do you hear ! ” Jim 
repeated. 44 You say it’s my child, so I’ve 


A TRANSFORMATION SCENE 151 


got the call on it. You ain’t fit to touch no 
child of mine ! ” 

“ Who’s you to talk of fit or not fit ? ” she 
cried, holding out her hands against him. 
4 4 Your child ! What’s he to you ? He’d 
never be so much to you as half an hour with 
some poor girl. He’d never be no more to you 
than a glass of beer ! You have a call on 
him, indeed ! Did you carry him and feel 
him grow;? Did you feed him and put him 
to sleep ? Did you make his clothes and 
wash him, and see to him day and night ? 
Did you go with him up and down, up and 
down, and him crying all night long ? What 
are you to talk of being fit, and me not fit — 
me as bore him and keeps him alive ? Tell 
me that and take him from me if you 
dares ! ” 

44 Pretty ways you’ve got of keeping it 
alive ! ” said Jim. 

Her hands fell. 44 1 was drove,” she said, 
and turned again to go. 

44 You give it me!” said Jim, seizing her 
again. 44 I’ll have it kep’ somewheres. I’m 
a decent man.” 

44 Kep’ somewheres ? Kep’ ? My baby 


152 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


kep’ ? ” she said. “ I’d as lieve strangle him 
with my apron string ! ” 

She tried to walk faster, but still he held her 
tight. 

“ Oh, Jim,” she said, “ you was good to me 
once.” 

“ I’d better have cut your throat,” he 
answered. 

“ I’m not a bad woman,” she murmured. 
“ I was drove.” 

“ Your sort always says that,” said Jim. 
“ Give me the child ! ” 

“ Let me go ! Let me go ! ” she cried. 
“ I’d sooner kill you ! ” and she tried to 
run. 

“ It’s you wants killing ! ” he answered, 
and, grasping her tight round the waist and 
arms, he held her so that she could not move. 

“ Ahoy ! Jim, ahoy ! ” sounded a voice 
like the last trump, and the skipper’s head 
suddenly emerged in the gathering darkness, 
as though from a trap-door on a stage. 

“ Jim, ahoy ! ” he repeated, and, looking 
round, he discovered Jim standing immovable, 
with a woman in his arms. 

“ Hullo ! I beg parding, I’m sure,” he 


A TRANSFORMATION SCENE 153 


said, looking modestly away. He went where 
his child was still sleeping, and took him 
carefully on one arm, where he nestled 
drowsily, soothed by comfortable words. 
Then he set off on his walk back, but as he 
passed the silent group he could not resist 
one glance at them, and at the glance he 
stopped dead and looked again. 

“ Hullo ! ” he said, slowly. “ What’s all 
this here ? Well, I’m damned ! I never did ! 
Why, if it isn’t her — her come back and him 
holding on to her like a conger ! ” 

He came nearer to them on the tip-toes of 
his enormous boots. At a few yards’ distance 
he stopped and looked again. 

“ Well,” he said, “ if that isn’t as fine a 
sight as ever I seed ! Them two standing 
there, thick and close as the bag end ! ” 

Jim had relaxed his hold. The woman had 
ceased to struggle, and she turned her face 
away. 

“ Why, Jim, here’s luck ! ” the skipper went 
on. “ I always did say it was a wonder as she 
stayed with you so long. That’s always the 
wonder with all of them to me. And now she’s 
back, and that’s a bigger wonder still ! Well, 


154 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


I suppose you’ll be coming along home together 
now ? ” 

“ Where else should we be coming ? ” said 
Jim. 

“ That’s first rate,” said the skipper, “ as 
first rate a thing as ever I knowed ! ” 

They turned and walked along the deserted 
pontoon, where the trawlers lay all tied up 
against the wharf, ready for the Monday’s 
voyage out, for things go fast with fishermen. 
The woman was crying quietly, holding her 
handkerchief on the far side of her face to hide 
it ; and in hopes of covering her distress the 
skipper continued in his loudest voice : 

“ Grand sport, grand sport to-day ! Never 
had better sport in all my life ! ” 

“ Caught anything ? ” said Jim. 

“ Three codling and a flounder ! ” said the 
skipper, putting down the child to walk, and 
opening his bag with pride. They all looked 
at the little fish lying in it. 

“ Grand sport ! ” he repeated. “ Perhaps 
your good lady would like them to her 
supper ? ” 

“ Thank you, kindly,” she murmured, and 
began crying again. 


A TRANSFORMATION SCENE 155 


“ It ain’t to be called fishing,” the skipper 
went on, rapidly, pretending not to notice 
anything unusual. 11 It’s nothing only sport ! ” 

As they crossed the top of one of the lowest 
streets in the old town by the docks, the 
woman turned suddenly aside. “ You wait here 
a minute,” she said hurriedly ; “ I’ve got to 
fetch something.” 

The skipper took up his child again, and 
they stood waiting. Presently she returned, 
carrying a sleeping baby dressed in clean white 
hat and cape and all the splendours of the 
poor. 

“ Well, I never did ! ” shouted the skipper 
again. “ It’s a top-deck cargo now, is it ? 
Well, if that isn’t a thing ! If that isn’t a 
thing ! I never did ! Jim, lay hold of your 
infant and carry it, same as me mine, or any 
decent man.” 

The woman held up the child. Certainly 
she was a sweet-looking woman, her figure 
slight and full of attraction. At sight of her 
Jim was moved with a sudden warmth of 
happiness. To call it virtue would be 
chilling. 

“ Right ! ” he said, and tucking the baby 


156 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


under his arm, more like a dog than a child, 
he set off to walk rapidly. 

“ Right it is,” said the skipper, striding after 
him, while the woman trotted beside. “ And 
all I wish is my old woman could see us coming 
home, like two mothers from a beano ! How 
she’d laugh ! ” 


VII 


“the act of fear” 

“ Distill’d almost to jelly with the act of fear.’* 
Hamlet , Act I., Scene 2. 

W HEN Mr. Clarkson, of the Education 
Office, went to the United States on a 
voyage of moral and intellectual discovery, he 
made only one resolution. Whatever hap- 
pened, he would not visit Niagara. 

“ What is there strange or new,” he said, 
“ in water falling over a cliff ? I could learn 
as much by emptying my waterbottle into 
a basin.” 

But a man he met at the Republican Con- 
vention in Chicago was so insistent and took 
so much trouble to look out the trains and 
“ make a reservation ” upon a sleeping car 
that Mr. Clarkson’s resolution shook. 

“ These people are crude and untutored,” 
he thought, “ their misuse of literature and 
language is deplorable. They are still pioneers, 


158 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


still Puritan, still ironbound in the ethics of 
dissent. But how polite ! How childlike in 
behaviour ! How solicitous to please ! Sub- 
mission for an hour or so to a vulgarised water- 
fall is no great sacrifice in return.” 

So he “ stopped off ” (atrocious phrase !) 
at the station called Niagara Falls, and 
wandered out by himself into the cool air of 
early morning. 

Guided by the roar of water, he crossed two 
bridges and came to a small island above the 
main fall. Tossing and swirling, the rapids 
rushed past it to their precipitous plunge. 
There he sat down upon a broad rock, his feet 
dangling close above the foaming torrent, and 
contemplated the scene. Now and then a tree 
trunk or plank of driftwood was carried by 
and swept towards that smooth, deep edge of 
solid-looking, greenish water. “ Regardless 
of its doom,” Mr. Clarkson quoted happily to 
himself. 

It was only a little past seven, and a grey 
mist, promising a hot and beautiful day, still 
hung over the breadth of river. Cool spray 
rose from the chasm and drifted pleasantly in 
Mr. Clarkson’s face. Not a human soul was 


“THE ACT OF FEAR” 


159 


in sight, except one dark figure in whom Mr. 
Clarkson thought he recognised a fellow- 
passenger on the train from Chicago. But 
the man was seated on the grass some distance 
away, apparently as anxious as Mr. Clarkson 
himself to secure all the delight of solitude. 

“ This is really not so bad,” Mr. Clarkson 
thought ; “I can go away before the crowd 
arrives and still recall this scene of my child- 
hood’s magic-lanterns without distress.” 

Gazing upon the rushing water, he fell into a 
reverie about beginnings and endings. The 
rapids approaching the crash were more 
attractive to him than the crash itself, which 
he had no curiosity to see. Spring, he thought, 
is more interesting than summer. Art grows 
dull the moment it touches perfection. A 
biography loses its charm when the subject is 
forty or becomes an Under Secretary. 

“ It is the time of possibility, of dubitation, 
of unconscious approach to the crash or the 
climax that interests us,” he meditated ; “ I 
suspect that the advice 4 in all things to con- 
template the end ’ is misleading. The end is 
uninteresting in its certainty. As Oscar Wilde 
said of this very water, the wonder would be 


160 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


if it did not fall. One may say the same of a 
man.” 

In the midst of these reflections, he per- 
ceived that the dark figure was approaching. 
Mr. Clarkson was apprehensive, but he re- 
tained hope until the man sat down close to 
his side. Then, in spite of his annoyance, 
Mr. Clarkson said, “ Good morning,” with his 
habitual courtesy. 

The man made no answer, but sat there, 
gazing blankly into the water. He looked 
about thirty-five, and was fairly well-dressed, 
though he had not shaved nor put on a clean 
collar that morning. To Mr. Clarkson he 
seemed rather interesting — “ not so infantile 
as most, not so bloated with ice-cream as 
usual, nor so heavy in the chest with rhetoric 
as those fellows in the Convention.” 

After a long silence, the man, without look- 
ing up, suddenly said, “ Have you heard what 
the Indians used to do here ? ” 

“ No,” said Mr. Clarkson, “ but wherever I 
go in this country of yours I see a background 
of vanished Indians and Puritan pioneers. I 
like to imagine those solemn old Pilgrims feel- 
ing their way up unknown rivers like this.” 


“ THE ACT OF FEAR ” 


161 


“ Once a year, about this time,” the 
stranger continued, “ the Indians pushed a 
canoe out from this very island into the 
rapids. There was a young girl in it, and she 
went over the falls.” 

“ Good heavens ! What a waste of young 
life ! ” cried Mr. Clarkson. “ I wonder why 
they did that.” 

“ Unchastity, I suppose,” answered the 
stranger. 

“ That’s very unlikely,” said Mr. Clarkson. 
“ If the girls were habitually unchaste, this 
selection would have been difficult. And if 
they were not, in some years there might have 
been no victim. Primitive races, it is true, 
often exaggerate the importance of feminine 
chastity. So do many people to-day. But 
more probably the sacrifice was made to some 
totem — a bison or the spirit of the water — 
like the similar rite on the Nile. Tantum 
religio jpotuit suadere malorum. You remem- 
ber the poet’s comment upon the sacrifice of 
Polyxena. The parallel is fairly close.” 

“ Do you think the importance of feminine 
chastity is always exaggerated ? ” the stranger 
asked. 


o.s. 


11 


162 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


“ That’s an enormous question,” replied 
Mr. Clarkson, smiling. “ Think how much of 
the greatest literature turns upon that very 
point, from the ‘ Agamemnon ’ through 
‘ Othello ’ down to ‘ Faust.’ ” 

“ Or masculine chastity ? ” asked the man. 

“ Why, no,” said Mr. Clarkson, “ it would 
be absurd to say we exaggerate the import- 
ance of that.” 

The stranger raised his head for the first 
time, and gazed dreamily around. It was a 
scene of singular beauty. The sun was just 
peering through the mist, and gleams of rain- 
bow hung above the Falls, while the further 
bank was still invisible. 

“ I think the worst is over,” he murmured ; 
“ I feel a little happier now.” 

Mr. Clarkson looked at him more sympa- 
thetically. “ Certainly the face is refined,” he 
thought, “ perhaps over-sensitive for this 
hemisphere.” 

“ I mentioned ‘ Faust ’ just now,” he said 
aloud. “ You remember that after the piteous 
scene which ends the First Part with Gretchen 
in the prison, the Second Part opens amid 
mountains and cool waters in the morning 


THE ACT OF FEAR 


163 


before sunrise. Faust is lying prostrate 
there, but around him hover the spirits of 
Nature, pitying a mortal’s sorrow, and they 
sing 

4 Ob er heilig, ob er bflse, 

Jamraert sie der Unglucksmann/ 

Nature is a kindly nurse, those spirits say. 
She can soothe the wretched, however guilty, 
even as Faust was. And perhaps we may call 
his offence unchastity.” 

“ Yes, I suppose I am guilty,” said the 
man ; “ but it is not guilt that makes me 
wretched.” 

“ That’s all right,” said Mr. Clarkson, 
cheerfully. “ A robust conscience, you know ! 
Never cherish an invalid conscience ! ” 

“ If it were only conscience,” said the 
stranger, “ I shouldn’t much mind how 
invalid it was.” 

Both were silent, and then Mr. Clarkson 
said, “ Unhappiness is a queer thing. I really 
believe nothing could make me unhappy 
about myself — I say, about myself — except 
the loss of reputation through something I 
had done — some stupid thing that made my 
friends avoid me, or look askance and hurry 

11—2 


164 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


past, saying, ‘ Hullo, Clarkson,’ and no more. 
Then I think I could not live.” 

To Mr. Clarkson’s astonishment and annoy- 
ance, the stranger uttered a deep groan, and 
dropped his dishevelled head between his 
hands. 

“ Why, what’s the matter now ? ” Mr. Clark- 
son asked, with the bored expression that a 
husband uses to an irritating wife who finds 
some new grievance in the household. 

“ What you said ! ” replied the unhappy 
man. “ That is just the reason I couldn’t 
live. If they found out, my friends would 
avoid me. They would look askance and 
hurry past. They would say, ‘ Hullo, Cleg- 
horn ! ’ and no more.” 

“ Oh, come ! ” said Mr. Clarkson, “ I’m 
sure it can’t be as bad as all that ! ” 

“ 0 God ! What is to become of me if they 
find out ? ” the other continued, paying no 
attention to the solace ; “ every one will 
despise me. I’m professor of ethics at a 
college for men and women. They’ll hound 
me from my position. All my friends will say, 
‘ Hullo, Cleghorn ! ’ and hurry past.” 

The man groaned again, and, in spite of his 


“ THE ACT OF FEAR ” 165 

strong objection to drama in private life, Mr. 
Clarkson felt he could not decently get up and 
walk away. 

“ Well, won’t you tell me what it’s all 
about ? ” he asked, and at last the man began 
to blurt out sentences interrupted by exclama- 
tions of self-pity and anger. 

“ You see,” he said, “ I was at that con- 
founded Convention. I was in the gallery, 
and a girl was sitting next me. She was a 
pretty girl, blue-eyed, well-dressed. It was 
very hot, you know, and she had only some 
thin muslin stuff round her neck. Through 
that muslin I could see she had a very pretty 
— what is called figure, you know. We got 
talking. She smiled, and looked at me very 
nicely, and all the time I kept peering down 
through that muslin stuff.” 

“ Strange,” murmured Mr. Clarkson, “ in 
what queer places Venus lurks ! I don’t mean 
between a girl’s breasts. That’s an old trick 
of hers. But who would have expected to feel 
the lure of beauty in a Republican Convention? 
I should sooner have sought it in a Baptist 
chapel.” 

“lama Baptist,” groaned the man ; “ and 


166 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


that makes it all the worse. I took her down 
to that counter below ground for lunch. I 
gave her a ham sandwich and coffee and an 
ice-cream. I never paid for it, because the 
man was too busy to take the money. ,, 

“ Oh, is that all ? ” cried Mr. Clarkson, 
much relieved. “ That is soon put right. If 
you’re short of money, I’ll lend it you with 
pleasure, and you can send it by post — right 
now, as you Americans say.” 

“ We went back to our seats,” the man 
continued, taking no notice of the suggestion. 
“ She seemed sweeter than ever, engaging and 
free, talking and laughing. And I kept peering 
down into that muslin stuff. It was so 
tempting.” 

The stranger stopped and groaned again. 

“ Well,” said Mr. Clarkson, “ every one 
knows how beautiful the feminine bosom 
sometimes is. Look at our sculptors and 
painters ! They have treated that subject 
till it is almost trite and jejune. I often wish 
they would find something else equally attrac- 
tive to paint or sculp.” 

“ I longed and longed,” said the stranger. 
“ Oh, what a fool I was ! What earthly good 


“THE ACT OF FEAR” 


167 


could it do me ? Every woman has a figure 
much like that, I suppose ! ” 

“ Yes, I believe so,” said Mr. Clarkson 
soothingly. “ A doctor or man of science 
would tell you that those adipose pro- 
tuberances have been evolved merely for the 
provision of nourishment to the young of the 
human species. It is very strange that the 
idea of beauty has become connected with 
them at all. Schopenhauer, it is true, sug- 
gests that our romantic love of mountains 
may be derived from a dim recollection of our 
childhood’s delight in their prospect. But 
that is an idea that could have occurred to no 
one but a philosopher bred up among German 
women or Jewesses.” 

“ Oh, if I had only left her then,” moaned 
the stranger ! “ What a happy life I should 
have had ! The sitting was suspended. The 
crowd began to swarm out. We were close 
together. She was very small. She was 
hidden in the crowd. No one could see. I 
slid my hand down the muslin. She looked 
up at me. Such a look ! She shrank away 
as if I had poisoned her. She disappeared. 
I never saw her again.” 


168 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


“ Oh, well,” said Mr. Clarkson ; “ that’s 
nothing so very terrible. Most men have done 
much worse things than that. Even if they’re 
found out, nobody thinks much the worse of 
them for it. After all, by far the greater part 
of our art and drama and poetry is an incite- 
ment to conduct of that kind.” 

“ But I shall be found out ! ” cried the 
stranger. “ I gave her my name and address 
when I took her to lunch, and was as free and 
innocent as herself, and I am a Professor of 
Ethics at a college for young men and 
women ! ” 

“ Please don’t worry any more about it,” 
Mr. Clarkson urged ; “ one could hardly live 
unless one assumed that possible misfortunes 
would never happen. Probably she was a 
nice girl and will say nothing about it.” 

“ Yes, she was a nice girl,” the other 
replied, as though deliberating ; “ but I can’t 
decide whether that makes it worse or 
better.” 

“ Of course, she’ll say nothing,” Mr. Clark- 
son repeated ; “ and, after all, no great harm 
was done. It will be a useful warning to her 
not to go out to lunch with every one she 


“THE ACT OF FEAR ” 


169 


meets. Even though the man pays,” he 
added, smiling. 

“ No great harm to her, perhaps,” the 
stranger murmured slowly, “ but ruin to me, 
if it comes out.” 

“ It’s a strange situation,” Mr. Clarkson 
reflected. “ One does not admit any wrong. 
One does not regret any so-called sin. Yet 
one is unhappy and full of fear. It would 
make a fine theme for your next course of 
lectures on ethics.” 

They were silent again for a time, both lost 
in diverse thoughts. Then the stranger got 
up stiffly, as though weary and cramped. 

“ I am glad I met you,” he said ; “ I feel 
better and more confident now.” 

“ Yes,” said Mr. Clarkson, rising, too, 
“ that is the secret of confession. How wise 
the old Church is ! What sources of human 
comfort she discerned long before the 
psychologists began talking of inhibitions and 
complexes and purgations of the soul ! De- 
lighted, as you nice Americans say, to have 
met you, sir ! And I hope you will forget 
that little incident and look this beautiful 
world again in the face with a free heart.” 


170 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


They were just turning to go when a boy 
crossed the bridge to the island, crying a 
morning paper. 

“ It must have come with us from 
Chicago ! ” said the stranger, reaching out a 
trembling hand. 

He gave two cents and received the 
enormous budget of “ printed matter ” such 
as people in the United States devour on 
Sundays. He tore it hastily open and rum- 
maged in the contents. Suddenly he stopped, 
as though paralysed. He read for a 
moment, and then handed the paper to 
Mr. Clarkson. 

A headline ran : — 

“CHARGES MONSTER WITH ASSAULT.” 

“ A beautiful daughter of our noble City charges that 
a Brutish Satyr in Human Form assaulted and humi- 
liated her in a public place during the Convention, 
Gives the name of a Public Character holding a high 
position of notorious moral responsibility, and for good 
or evil controlling the Eternal Destinies of Young 
Persons of Both Sexes. Sleuths are Hot on the Trail ! ” 

Mr. Clarkson read the paragraph twice over 
in real distress. When he looked up, the 
stranger had vanished. Mr. Clarkson turned 


“THE ACT OF FEAR ” 


171 


to the rapids again, and there he beheld the 
man carefully wading out into the current, 
swaying his arms to preserve his balance. 
The water was already above his knees. 

“ Come back ! Come back at once ! ” Mr. 
Clarkson shouted. “ For God’s sake, don’t 
be such a fool ! You’ll repent it ! Reflect a 
moment ! Come back ! For the love of God, 
come back ! ” 

Hastily pulling up his trousers, he got into 
the water himself, boots and all. The Stream 
gurgled round his ankles. He slipped, but 
steadied himself against the rock he had just 
left. 

Looking up, he saw the stranger suddenly 
caught by the main stream’s irresistible 
torrent, swept off his legs, and borne down- 
wards like a log towards the terrible edge. 
One arm was raised for a second, as though 
in protest against earth and heaven. Next 
moment he was gone. At this point the fall 
is about a hundred and fifty feet. 

“ Another appalling sacrifice to primitive 
conventions and the totem of the falls,” 
thought Mr. Clarkson, as he struggled back to 
the rock where they had both been sitting. 


172 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


‘ ‘ Oh, Virtue, what crimes are committed in 
thy name ! ” 

Searching the papers next day, he found a 
note describing the discovery of a suicide’s 
body four miles below the falls. There 
seemed no reason for the rash act, as the 
pockets contained a copious supply of dollar 
bills. The name “ Cleghorn ” was on the 
linen. 

In another part of the paper was a para- 
graph saying that the Human Monster who 
had humiliated an Innocent Young Maiden 
during the Convention had been tracked to 
his Lair, and proved to be a Large Employer 
of Female Stenographers, as the paper had 
anticipated. 


VIII 

in Diocletian’s day 
i 

S O the old man wants to return to power,” 
said Diocletian, rolling up a letter and 
speaking rather to himself than to the officer 
who brought it. 

It was a cool autumn morning in Spalato, 
and they were walking side by side along 
an arcade which ran the whole length of the 
front of the new palace, looking south-west 
across the sea. For more than two hundred 
yards the corridor ran, and at either end it was 
flanked with massive towers. Sixteen of 
them protected the fortress walls of the huge 
quadrangle within which the palace was 
constructed. In the centre of the colonnade 
stood a spacious entrance-gate, with steps 
leading down to the water, which lapped 
gently against them. For the bay was never 
rough, the storms of the Adriatic being 
warded off by low outlying islands. 


174 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


Beside the entrance-gate a heavy barge lay 
at anchor. It had come at great speed from 
the Riviera, bringing the messenger of 
Maximian, ex-Emperor like Diocletian him- 
self. Tied to their pivots, the banks of 
oars still rested on the surface ; the crews 
who had worked the ships were busy with 
breakfast, or lay sleeping in the newly 
risen sun. 

“ So the old man wants to return to power, 
and asks me to join with him, ,, said Diocletian 
again ; and he stopped in his walk to look 
meditatively over the sea between the 
columns. “ For twenty-one years I ruled the 
world — I, Diocletian, the slave boy from those 
Dalmatian hills down yonder. I saved the 
world — saved it from savages — Goths, Ger- 
mans, Persians, Parthians, and the rest. 
Continually, like clouds in storm, they kept 
pressing down over the sunlit prospect of the 
Empire, and I drove them back to the dismal 
regions which they inhabit. All that is 
worth preserving in mankind I preserved. 
The mists and obscurities which threatened 
to envelop the clearest reason of the world I 
also swept away, as with a health-giving 


IN DIOCLETIAN’S DAY 


175 


breeze. And now the old man wants me to 
return and begin all over again ! You must 
rest here, Julianus, for a few days, and I will 
give Maximian an answer.” 

“ All your commands I obey,” answered the 
officer ; “ to me you are always Emperor.” 

“ Please don’t talk like a courtier,” said 
Diocletian, though he bowed with a gratified 
smile ; “ I’m only a private citizen now — a 
self-made man enjoying well-earned repose, 
like any army contractor. And, like most 
retired speculators, I spend my declining years 
in planting trees I shall never see grow up, 
and in building a house I shall not long enjoy. 
At the best, I can feel the spring return 
only ten times more. For I suppose I am 
mortal, although I have long been declared 
divine.” 

He smiled again, and led his guest through a 
vaulted vestibule, on one side of which stood 
a great dining-hall, and on the other a library, 
guest-chambers, baths, and the ex-Emperor’s 
bedroom and private apartments. The vesti- 
bule opened into a broad causeway or street, 
crossed at the centre by another street 
running at right angles to it, so that the two 


176 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


divided the quadrangle of the palace inside 
the surrounding walls into four interior 
quadrangles of about equal size. 

Turning to the right, Diocletian led the 
way up some steps to a large octagonal 
building, like a tower with a pointed roof, and 
pushed open the lofty doors of decorated 
bronze. In the centre of an empty floor 
stood a large stone sarcophagus, carved in 
deep relief with historic scenes — legionaries 
hewing shaggy ill-armed barbarians in pieces, 
executioners beheading prisoners like poppies 
in a row, and on one side an emperor entering 
Rome in triumph, the standards and the 
Actors’ rods and axes preceding his chariot, 
the spoils and long lines of captive kings and 
queens dragged behind, amid an applauding 
populace. It represented Diocletian’s own 
triumph of 303 a.d. — the last triumph ever 
to climb the Capitoline with the silent Virgin 
along the Sacred Way. 

“ As we were talking of mortality,” Dio- 
cletian said, “ I thought I would show you 
the tomb in which my carcass will lie forever 
when, in the poet’s words, my palsied head 
descends to heaven.” 


IN DIOCLETIAN’S DAY 


177 


Again he smiled, and after contemplating 
the empty stone box for a while in silence, 
they turned to go. 

“ Observe the architect’s skill,” said 
Diocletian. “ Outside, the mausoleum is 
octagonal ; inside, it is circular. That is 
thought a clever piece of construction, and 
you can make what symbol you like of it — 
the circle of eternity at rest within the points 
of this angular life, or what you will. But 
these mysteries have no attraction for a 
rough old soldier like me. Look rather at the 
frieze running round the interior — a divine 
creature, you see, hunting boars and wild 
goats. That’s more to my taste. I hold by 
the ancient gods as much as possible — partly, 
I suppose, because I am one.” 

He expected his companion to laugh, but 
Julianus only bowed, as if at a commonly 
acknowledged truth. 

“ I can’t quite say why I had such a lot 
of stuff brought from Egypt,” Diocletian 
continued. “ All those granite and marble 
columns are Egyptian, and so are those 
sphinxes on each side of the doors, all covered 
with incomprehensible writing ! They are 

o.s. 12 


178 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


said to be twice as old as Rome. A woman’s 
face and breasts on a lion’s body with eagle’s 
wings ! I suppose it all meant something to 
those old fellows. A queer country is Egypt ! 
Like a huge coffin ! And the priests worship 
queer gods with the heads of hawks, cats, dogs, 
calves, crocodiles, and heaven knows what ! I’d 
like to ask them a question or two. But it’s my 
belief that men and women will believe any- 
thing, provided it is ridiculous or impossible. 

“ You see those two statues in the pediment 
over the door,” he went on ; “ one is myself, 
the other is my wife Prisca, the ex-Empress. 
When I married her she was a beautiful 
woman, complacent and devout ; born just 
to worship the genial goddess of production, 
the joy of gods and men. But now she is 
wrapped in fantastic superstitions, — a kind 
of Jewess, they tell me, — and has carried off 
our daughter Valeria with her. Heaven 
knows to what fate they are wandering 
through the world, now that I can no longer 
protect them. They are too distinguished to 
be fortunate.” 

“ When last I heard of them, they were in 
the East,” said Julianus, 


IN DIOCLETIAN’S DAY 


179 


“ Howling over the crumbling ruins of 
Jerusalem, probably,” Diocletian replied, with 
regretful bitterness. “ Men are idiotic and 
swinish, but for real mania you must look to 
women. Notice that sarcophagus there, too. 
I had it brought here because of the beautiful 
workmanship : the story of Hippolytus and 
Phaedra — another instance of feminine mad- 
ness ! The thing is over a century old. I’ve 
forgotten whose bones moulder inside ; some 
one who was happy enough to live under the 
Antonines, I suppose, and saw the Empire 
complete and calm and uncorrupted. And 
there’s a bust of Nero on that pedestal. What 
a fantastic man he was ! And yet attractive, 
and capable of religious zeal. But now I 
should like to show you the temple of more 
genuine gods.” 

He led the way across a peristyle or roofless 
court surrounded by a colonnade of elegant 
arches, up the approach to an oblong temple, 
Corinthian in design, where they were met by 
a white-robed priest. He bowed profoundly 
to the ex-Emperor, extending his arms with 
hands turned down, and Diocletian answered 

the salutation with similar precision. The 

12-2 


180 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


great doors were thrown open by acolytes 
who served the temple — sweeping the floor, 
shaking out the curtains, and keeping the 
altar-fires alight. 

In the obscurity of the interior, into which 
a dubious light penetrated only through the 
open door, the visitor perceived a reduced 
imitation of the seated Zeus of Olympia, and 
the statue of a man in ancient Greek clothing, 
holding a scroll in one hand and a staff 
entwined with serpents in the other. 

“ As this is my only temple,” Diocletian 
said, speaking low, “ I chose to dedicate it 
to the gods of Heaven and Health combined 
— the greatest and the most useful of gods. 
My title of Jovius almost compelled me to 
select the one ; and indeed what greater god 
could one worship than him who rules the 
sky and directs the course of the firmaments 
revolving round the earth and the Empire ? 
But my personal adoration is especially due 
to iEsculapius ; for though I am divine and 
immortal, where should I be now but for his 
aid when terrible sickness befell me a few 
years ago ? People who saw me even when 
I was recovering did not recognise the soldier 


IN DIOCLETIAN’S DAY 


181 


and saviour of the world in the shrunken and 
enfeebled figure to which sickness had reduced 
me. I vowed at that time daily to worship 
the Healing God, and indeed I was engaged 
in his service as I walked the cool length of 
the esplanade when your ship put in. Other 
exercises I perform in his honour, as you 
shall presently see. For what is life — what 
is the life even of Divine Being — without the 
blessedness of health ? ” 

Taking a little incense from the priest, 
Diocletian raised both hands before the 
statues in turn and dropped it upon the 
smouldering fires of each altar. Tiny orange 
flames shot up from each, and a thin column 
of blue smoke arose. Julianus repeated the 
action before the statue of Jove alone, and as 
the ex-Emperor waited for him to perform the 
other sacrifice, he said, “ I have no need of 
health, being well already.” 

“ Oh, youth, youth ! ” laughed Diocletian 
as he turned to leave the temple ; and then 
he sighed and said little more as he conducted 
his guest around the rest of the palace build- 
ings — the stables, the galleries of cells for 
slaves, the apartments of the stewards and 


182 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


cooks. Only when they reached the north- 
west quadrangle, which was built as barracks 
for the bodyguard, he said in his tone of 
sardonic irony, — 

“ Yes, a thousand lusty men-at-arms are 
still required to preserve one life for a few 
years more. How many of the Caesars have 
died except by violence ? Hardly half a 
dozen since Augustus, three centuries ago. 
Conquest has not saved a Caesar ; public 
service has not saved ; still less has virtue. 
Good or evil, they have shared the same 
hideous fate. Slaughtered, murdered, stabbed, 
poisoned, torn in pieces, one after another 
they have gone — they have gone. Nor is 
abdication a defence. Fear lurks in ambush 
always ; and yet, though life is none too 
sweet, we cling to it.” 

Ashamed of an emotion thus revealed, he 
turned smilingly to Julianus and said, “ Now 
you have seen the pleasant resting-place I 
have constructed for the peace of old age. 
The sun is glowing hot in spite of autumn. 
The midday meal will be served you, and you 
must rest for a few hours. This afternoon we 
will drive round the neighbourhood. There is 


IN DIOCLETIAN’S DAY 


183 


a festival at Salona to-day. There will be the 
usual games and some necessary executions — 
no spectacle such as you young men-about- 
town are accustomed to in Rome, but just a 
simple entertainment good enough for us 
country folk.” 


ii 

Through the breathless hours of noon the 
palace lay silent, basking in sunlight. Even 
the vast gray blocks of the outer walls glared 
in the heat, and the newly wrought marble of 
the colonnades and temple steps shone with 
dazzling whiteness. Except for the sentries 
at the main gates and on the corner towers, 
all the soldiers, household servants, and slaves 
slept or lay prostrate in the shade — all but 
two of Diocletian’s secretaries, who, under his 
own direction, were cutting upon the marble 
wall of his inmost chamber a map of the 
Empire, the parts of which were variously 
coloured according to the dates of their 
acquisition or recent recovery. The regions 
which he had himself rescued from the bar- 
barians were dyed with brilliant scarlet. 

But toward four o’clock there was a stir 


184 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


throughout the palace. The guard was 
changed, servants moved to and fro on the 
streets, and presently a covered carriage 
drawn by six horses stood waiting before the 
ex-Emperor’s portico. Diocletian entered it 
with his guest and drove slowly down the 
carefully paved causeway to the Golden Gate 
in the centre of the northern wall. Passing 
through the tunnel of its deep and vaulted 
entrance, the carriage emerged upon a broad 
road, lined with young cypress trees on either 
side ; and directly the barriers of the fortress 
palace were left, an open country lay extended 
far in front, till rough lines of bare and rocky 
mountains closed the view. 

Like one escaping into free air, Diocletian 
leaned back with a deep breath of relief, and 
fixing his eyes on the mountains he said, “ I 
am getting on fairly well with my map, but 
have little satisfaction in it. We talk about 
the Empire of the world, but what do we know 
of the world ? Look at those mountains ! 
I was reared among them, only a few days’ 
journey farther south. They are my native 
country, but what do I know of the lands 
behind them ? They stretch away to the 


IN DIOCLETIAN’S DAY 


185 


Danube and the Euxine ; ridge after ridge of 
stony mountains, line after line of water- 
courses opening upon slips of plain, where 
outlandish people build little huts or pitch 
tents of skin ; always on the move, always 
robbing and killing each other, speaking 
unintelligible and inhuman languages, and 
called by idle names which mean nothing at 
all. How shall I entitle that country on a 
map ? One is tired of writing ‘ Land Un- 
known ’ all round the limits of our world.” 

“ I once travelled along the great road 
which Borne built from Dyrrachium through 
such an unknown region,” said Julianus. 
“ We crossed terrible mountains and passed 
two big lakes. All was savage till we escaped 
through the ruined home of ancient Alexander 
to Thessalonica, and so to the city of the 
Bosphorus.” 

“ And beyond that,” Diocletian continued, 
“ stood Nicomedia, where I once thought of 
erecting a new capital for the Empire. But 
the superstitious natives twice set fire to my 
palace after I destroyed their temple there, 
and I used that splendid site only to abdicate 
in despair. And beyond Asia lie Persia and 


186 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


Mesopotamia and the gates of India, which 
your ancient Alexander actually reached. 
But beyond those frontiers, what do we know ? 
I have stood on mountain heights and looking 
eastward have seen again range after range of 
giant mountains, breadths of desert intermin- 
able, and unknown waters. You remember 
what some old Greek poet told about the wan- 
derers of Asia, and people who pitch beside 
the lake at the edge of the world, and spear- 
men watching like eagles from peaks above 
the gulf of nothingness. But as I stood there, 
I saw the world’s edge was not reached, and 
there was no gulf of nothingness before me, but 
always land, and land, and lands unknown.” 

“ No doubt the surrounding world is larger 
than people used to think,” said Julianus. 
“ But, after all, our world gathered about this 
lovely sea, so full of glorious memories, is the 
only world that counts. We need not trouble 
ourselves with those dwellers in outer Cim- 
merian darkness.” 

“ Yes, but we must trouble ourselves,” 
Diocletian replied impatiently, “ or they will 
trouble us. I’ve seen them out there upon the 
Eastern confines — tall brown men with faces 


IN DIOCLETIAN’S DAY 


187 


like hawks ; tall brown women too, large-eyed 
and athletic as Zenobia. And I’ve seen 
hordes of hideous creatures — dwarfish, having 
slits for eyes, and long arms like apes. And 
who knows what strange monsters Africa may 
beget — ludicrous, black, inhuman ? No one 
has yet penetrated the farthest wilds of Britain 
or the islands west of it. But I have seen 
shaggy Germans beyond the Bhine, shaggy 
Scythians beyond the Danube. Innumerable 
they seemed. Mow them down by thousands, 
and next year there are thousands more, wait- 
ing for the sword. And beyond cold and misty 
seas dwell the Hyperboreans, from among 
whom the Goths descended upon us like a 
deluge of ice, devastating those bright cities of 
Asia, pillaging Thessalonica, Ephesus, and 
even Athens — Athens herself.” 

He paused, overwhelmed by the vision of 
those countless hordes. 

“ Little more than a century ago,” he con- 
tinued, “ how secure and quiet the Empire 
lay ! If peace was broken, it was usually 
broken by civil war. At the worst Borne then 
fought Borne. The victory was Boman, and 
it did not matter to the Empire who was 


188 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


Caesar. Men went unconcernedly about their 
business, hardly conscious of laws which 
stood firm and unquestioned behind them, 
the stronger because unnoticed. The inland 
sea was winged with merchant ships, always 
passing to and fro. Life passed in beautiful 
cities, or among the isolated villas which 
gladdened the shores of the Province, and of 
Egypt, Asia, and Greece ; to say nothing of 
pleasant Italy with her bays and rivers sliding 
under ancient walls. ‘Glory to thee, Satur- 
nian land, great mother of fruits, great 
mother of men ! ’ as our old poet sang. Then 
decent people could lay out their course of 
years as they pleased, beautifying their homes, 
pursuing the arts, and cultivating their minds 
or their gardens without thought or care. 
Under time-honoured forms, the established 
gods were reasonably worshipped. New- 
fangled notions were regarded with smiling 
incredulity or tolerant contempt, and from 
birth to acquiescent old age no sensible being 
suffered a disturbing thought, or aimed at 
greater happiness than the hope of a to-mor- 
row repeating to-day. 

“ But, my dear Julianus, how appalling 


IN DIOCLETIAN’S DAY 


189 


has been the change ! From every side an 
ignorant barbarism threatens to engulf that 
calm and placid world. Close beyond every 
frontier those huge clouds of savages are 
gathered, waiting to burst with inundation 
over all that Romans mean by the State, 
Civility, and Manners. For a few years I kept 
them back as iEolus once restrained the hurri- 
canes of storm. For a few years I redeemed 
the world and renewed the Empire’s life. But 
our peace cannot last. Close before us I see 
an age of tumult and unceasing war. Not an 
age, but ages following ages, during which 
Roman public life and civilised daily existence 
will disappear, perhaps, even from memory. 

“ Was it not time, then, that I turned from 
a ruining world to build my palace, and for 
my final years to be still ? You remember 
what the old Persian said : 4 The worst torture 
man can suffer is to have many thoughts and 
no power.’ I was unable to avert the evil I 
foresaw. We stand at the end of an age — the 
age of Rome. It has been a noble and benefi- 
cent age, blessing the heart and summit of 
the world. Egypt was not so great, nor was 
Assyria. Their ages passed ; the age of Rome 


190 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


is passing now, and before mankind lies a 
whirlpool of savage obscurity.” 

“ It is to save mankind,” said Julianus, 
“ that my master Maximian calls on you to 
return.” 

Diocletian made no answer. The carriage 
was entering the streets of a large and beauti- 
ful town, built beside a deep inlet of the 
Adriatic. 

“ Here we are in Salona,” he said, rousing 
himself. “ Isn’t it a splendid situation ? I 
intend to make it the capital of Dalmatia. 
You observe that I am strengthening the 
fortifications. Look at that mighty new 
wall ! I am building that against the bar- 
barians. Barbarians ! as if walls could keep 
out either barbarians or care or death ! ” 

hi 

Diocletian descended at the gate of the 
large amphitheatre, from which the shouts of 
the audience could be heard. As he and 
Julianus entered the imperial seats, the noise 
was hushed, and the spectators rose in silent 
reverence to the saviour of civilisation. Even 
the gladiators paused in a mock engagement 


IN DIOCLETIAN’S DAY 


191 


and sainted. Diocletian settled himself with 
deliberation upon a kind of throne, and placed 
on his head a diadem, retained for public 
occasions as a memorial of former greatness. 
He signalled with his hand, and the games 
proceeded. 

There was nothing unusual in the pro- 
gramme. The amphitheatre was small — - 
barely seventy yards long and barely fifty 
yards across. Within this narrow space 
trained athletes exhibited their strength and 
skill ; gladiators contested with blunted 
swords, or with nets and tridents ; wild bulls 
were incited to gore each other ; strange 
animals imported from Africa at Diocletian’s 
own expense — giraffes, hippopotami, zebras, 
and apes — were crowded together in a terrified 
herd, while the audience shouted to increase 
their panic, and were convulsed with laughter 
at their awkward movements, their bewildered 
faces, and wild efforts to escape. When 
negroes with long whips had driven them 
back to their stalls, there was an interval 
during which slaves cleaned the arena and 
covered it with fresh sand, while the specta- 
tors drank from wine-flasks and devoured the 


192 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


provisions they had brought with them in 
bags. 

“ The populace is awaiting the top of the 
climax,” said Diocletian, looking round upon 
the crowded tiers with amused toleration. 
“ After all, death gives the common mind its 
keenest emotion ; you might almost say its 
one touch of poetry. To-day they celebrate 
a special sacrifice to Mars, and there are 
military executions in his honour. I take no 
pleasure in such things ; I have seen too 
many deaths. No death can interest me now 
— except perhaps my own,” he added, with 
his characteristic smile. 

“ Let us go then, Sire,” said Julianus. 

“ Oh, no ! I must see the end,” Diocletian 
answered wearily. “ The people would be 
hurt if we went. They are only carrying out 
one of my own decrees, and ‘ who wishes the 
end, wishes the means,’ as the jurists say. 
Besides, you know old Martial’s epigram — 
‘ Cato goes out from the theatre. Why, then, 
did he come ? Was it that he might go out ? ’ 
But here come the criminals. First there is a 
pack of deserters, murderers, brigands, and 
malefactors in general, caught in this neigh- 


IN DIOCLETIAN’S DAY 193 


bourhood or threatening the highways through 
the mountains.” 

From one end of the arena a squadron of 
ten criminals, armed as Roman legionaries, 
entered. They halted in single rank opposite 
the ex-Emperor, raised their short swords in 
salute, and clashed them upon their iron 
shields. The gate at the other end of the arena 
opened, and out swarmed a mob of thirty 
beings, leaping and shouting and brandishing 
stout spears and gleaming knives. They were 
decked like savages, with wigs of long fair 
hair, all matted and tangled, tunics and kilts 
of cowhide, bare legs, and oval shields of 
cowhide too. Without a pause, they rushed in 
a confused mass upon the supposed legion- 
aries, who rapidly wheeled right and stood 
shoulder to shoulder in line to confront them. 
At the clash of the meeting forces the amphi- 
theatre stood up and gasped with excitement. 

At once the work of killing began. Swords 
struck with edge and point. Spears were 
thrust into the joints of armour. Daggers 
stabbed at throats. Within a few seconds, 
dead and wounded fell. Arms and hands 
were sliced off. The sinews of bare legs were 


194 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


severed. One head and then another and 
another rolled to the edge of the sanded oval. 
Screams of anguish mingled with the applause. 
The sand was stained with great patches of 
blood, bright red, crimson, and brown. The 
criminals who remained standing tripped over 
the bodies of the fallen. 

Within twenty minutes only four of the 
legionaries and one burlesque barbarian sur- 
vived. Slowly the four edged him back to one 
end of the arena, until they held him sur- 
rounded at the gate. Leaping upon him from 
right and left they clung to his arms while one 
quietly cut his throat, and the spectacle was 
over. The triumphant four saluted Diocletian, 
and received their pardon. 

“ This form of execution,” the ex-Emperor 
observed to his guest, “ is a device of my own. 
It gives the worst criminal some small chance 
of life. Besides, it encourages recruiting, for 
the legionaries always come off better than 
the barbarians, and some save their lives. 
The sight of blood and conflict is wholesome, 
too. It checks enervation and effeminacy. 
And, after all, it is pleasanter to fight for one’s 
life than be slaughtered like a sheep. 


IN DIOCLETIAN’S DAY 


195 


“ But now/’ he added, looking down on 
the arena again, “ we shall be compelled to 
witness another execution. These are traitors 
who refuse to fight and actually prefer being 
slaughtered without resistance.” 

Two grown men, a youth of about eighteen, 
and a woman were pushed out from one of the 
doors, the keepers of the arena thrusting at 
them from behind with long poles tipped with 
iron points. They were dressed in the ordi- 
nary summer clothes of the respectable 
middle-class. The woman wore a girdle of 
yellow silk, and her black hair was tied with 
a fillet of the same colour. The youth held 
her by the hand, and all four walked slowly 
into the midst of the arena, with eyes uplifted 
to the open sky. Attendants followed, carry- 
ing a wooden statue of Mars, which they 
placed in the centre of the arena, and with- 
drew. 

Straining their heads forward, the specta- 
tors watched what was about to happen. 
Taking one step toward the statue, the elder 
of the two men spat in its face, and in a loud 
voice uttered the words, “ Get thee behind 
me, Satan ! ” 

13-2 


196 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


A yell of execration rose from the crowded 
amphitheatre. All sprang to their feet, 
gesticulating, and shouting for death. 

“ I feared the experiment would be useless,” 
Diocletian said, regretfully. “ The obstinacy 
of superstition surpasses reason. The offence 
is a crime against the Mars of Rome. Those 
two men are centurions who threw down their 
arms refusing to fight for the Empire’s safety. 
The youth refused the military oath because 
his superstition commanded its followers not 
to bind themselves by swearing nor to resist 
evil. The woman has been added for propa- 
gating the same treason against the State.” 

Amid the storm of clamour, Julianus could 
hardly hear the words. His eyes were fixed 
on the heavy barrier of the opposite gate. It 
was raised. Two young lions and a leopard 
bounded upon the sand, and then stood still, 
bewildered by the light and noise. The two 
lions stooped to sniff the corpses still stretched 
in uncouth attitudes upon the scene of death. 
But the leopard, fixing his eyes upon the 
woman, cautiously advanced and crouched 
down for the spring. Instantly the youth 
snatched a bloody sword from the hand of a 


IN DIOCLETIAN’S DAY 


197 


dead legionary and plunged it into the woman’s 
body low between her breasts. With a cry 
she fell. At the sight of the spouting blood, 
the leopard sprang, tore open her garment 
with one scratch of his claws, fastened his 
teeth in her side and with half-closed eyes 
drank in ecstasy. Absorbed in the pleasure, 
he was an easy prey. With the dripping 
sword the youth struck once more, and the 
wild beast rolled over dead beside the naked 
form. 

The spectators rocked with laughter. They 
yelled the obscenities common to mankind. 
They shouted admiration, too. Some called 
upon Diocletian to pardon the youth. 

But it was too late for pardon. A lion 
sprang. The youth, still grasping the sword, 
made no resistance, and by one blow of a 
terrible paw his throat was torn out. One of 
the older men fell to the onslaught of the other 
lion, and the second centurion remained 
standing alone. “ Depart in peace, most 
Christian souls ! ” he cried, raising his hands. 
But while he spoke, a daring gladiator crept 
stealthily across the arena, seized him from 
behind, bowed his body down as if in mock 


198 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


obeisance to the gods, and struck off his head 
so that it fell at the statue’s feet. Again the 
audience shouted -with pleasure and applause. 

“ That is the end of our humble festivity,” 
said Diocletian, rising. “ Now we may go 
without offence.” 

The delighted crowd rose and cheered the 
ex-Emperor as he withdrew, saluting him 
with the title of Divus and Jovius. Looking 
back from the gateway, Julianus saw the 
bloodstained arena littered with dead bodies, 
and the two lions snarling with jealous satis- 
faction over their unwonted and delightful 
food. 


IV 

The air was now pleasantly cool, and the 
sun was setting in lines of orange and crimson 
clouds over the Adriatic. 

“ Drive slowly round by the garden,” 
Diocletian said to the coachman ; and as the 
heavy carriage began to move, he turned again 
to Julianus. “ Such performances add variety 
to provincial life,” he observed, “ and prevent 
the agriculturists from flocking to Rome. The 
female prisoner was condemned also for per- 


IN DIOCLETIAN’S DAY 


199 


sistently preaching the rites of an inhuman 
love likely to undermine our legitimate matri- 
mony and hinder natural procreation. These 
heated and orgiastic mysteries are continually 
sprouting in the East, like poisonous growths 
on steaming dunghills. In olden times those 
Asiatics worshipped Astarte and Cybele. 
Mythras came more recently to delude emo- 
tional minds, and now there is this. 

“ However, as I told you, it was merely for 
refusing to serve, or to continue service, in the 
army that the youth and the two deserters 
were executed. No more unpardonable trea- 
son to Rome could be imagined than a refusal 
to fight in her defence. These pitiful wretches 
enjoy the peace and splendour of Rome, but 
will not move a finger to protect or extend 
either. The City, the State, the Empire, are 
nothing to them. Such people brood only 
over their own condition and the preservation 
of their souls. They undertake no public 
duties. They refuse to act as judges or magis- 
trates, and even their pleasures are private 
and selfishly concealed. They appear to live 
in a kind of ecstatic hysteria, scorning reason, 
avoiding social life, and looking forward with 


200 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


joyous expectation to the speedy destruction, 
not only of our Roman world, but of the 
whole human race. For the protection of 
humanity, I resolved some five or six years 
ago to extirpate their desperate super- 
stition, and in that, at all events, I shall 
succeed.” 

“ You are right,” said Julianus ; “ if such 
treasonable opinions spread, no state — not 
even the smallest city — could survive in this 
world of perpetual conflict. And the best 
way of silencing pernicious opinions is to 
silence those who hold them.” 

“ If those unhappy criminals had but 
shown a little reasonable compliance,” Dio- 
cletian continued, “ they need not have 
suffered. They might, for instance, have dis- 
played a becoming reverence for myself,” he 
added, smiling once more. “ I make no pre- 
tensions to extraordinary virtue, but my 
private record compares well with my name- 
sake Jove’s. 

“ As you know,” he went on, “I think it 
best to maintain the ancient public gods. 
These new religions are too much occupied 
with personal states of mind, or else with 


IN DIOCLETIAN’S DAY 


201 


oracles and soothsayers and the movements 
of stars and planets. What do the stars know 
about us, or what do they care ? Solemn old 
philosophers used to say the stars twinkled 
in their pity for mankind, and the music of 
the spheres could actually be heard if we 
listened long enough. My friend, it is all 
childish folly. Not even Jews believe it. 

“ Then there was worthy old Marcus — 
divine, but still worthy ; he always kept one 
eye turned inward upon what he called his 
soul. As though his soul mattered ! He 
helped to build some decent towns, like this 
of Salona here ; and he cleared the frontiers 
beyond the Danube. But all the time he kept 
grubbing into his own state of mind, his con- 
duct and thoughts, calling them up daily for 
examination. That is not the way to great- 
ness. He felt a kind of sympathy for all the 
world. He used to quote young Pliny’s saying 
that, when one poor mortal assists another 
poor mortal, there is God. My dear Julianus, 
the gods are not pitiful and tender and 
effeminate. The gods are soldierly and civic 
powers. It was they who built the walls of 
Borne, and extended the empire of law and 


202 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


reason into the realms of barbarous and 
obscene night.” 

The carriage stopped at a large square 
enclosure surrounded by stone walls. 

“ Enough of these solemn abstractions,” 
said Diocletian, with relief. “ Here we are at 
my garden. Now I can show you something 
genuine — a real public service to the State.” 

Within the walls a vegetable and fruit gar- 
den was spread out in ordered rows and 
rectangular patches. Slaves were digging the 
rows and watering the roots by a system of 
channels arranged with sluices and locks. 

“ Isn’t it magnificent ? ” Diocletian cried. 
“ Look at those fennels, those onion-beds and 
cabbages, all in line ! Just like cohorts drawn 
up for battle. And there are apple trees and 
plums, and a good big patch of vineyard for 
my special wine which I may drink without 
fear of gout. I come here to dig and prune 
nearly every day. It is healthy exercise, and 
much more delightful than ruling the Empire. 
You can tell your master Maximian that ! 
And by the way, when I write my answer, 
remind me to put in a word of congratulation 
upon the marriage of Maximian’s daughter to 


IN DIOCLETIAN’S DAY 


203 


Constantine, son of my old friend and suc- 
cessor Constantius. He seems a promising 
youth. They tell me that he is one of the 
Caesars already. But how many emperors 
exactly are there now ? Do you suppose I 
care to become just one more among the 
number — I, who saved the Empire once ? ” 

The carriage bore them to the Western or 
Iron Gate, and when they re-entered the 
palace the evening was almost dark, and the 
larger stars were already shining. 

v 

The town of Spalato is now built inside 
Diocletian’s palace and extends beyond the 
walls. His mausoleum was converted into a 
cathedral dedicated to the Assumption of the 
Virgin about three hundred years after 
Diocletian’s death. The High Altar marks the 
spot where his sarcophagus stood, and side 
altars sanctify the relics of Salona’s first 
martyrs and of her first bishop. The temple of 
Jove and iEsculapius is now the baptistry, 
and the font, designed in the Lombardic style, 
has for six centuries served for the christening 
of the city’s babies. 


204 


ORIGINAL SINNERS 


If you pass out through the Iron Gate and 
climb the steep and rocky height west of the 
town, you will discover a large stone cross upon 
the summit, and may read an inscription 
cut on the base in fine Roman characters : 
“ Jesus Christus Deus Homo vivit regnat 

IMPERAT.” 


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